Budapest, Hungary Fabian closed the door behind him as he began to walk towards Oliver, who started to smoke a cigarette as he let out a cloud of smoke from his mouth to the night time sky. "Want one?" Oliver offered to his friend, which was turned down, as he turned towards Fabian. Fabian started to talk, "For what I have heard inside, it seems that the President might be willing to aid Ethiopia." "Might isn't a good enough answer" said Oliver with anger in his voice as he dropped his cigarette onto the ground, stepping on it with his foot hard. "We need her to have an answer that will be satisfy the crowd, not to hold the answer.". Fabian walked up to Oliver and grabbed his shoulders with both of his hands and smiled, "Relax, she will aid the people of Ethiopia no matter what she says. It could increase relations with US and other countries behind Ethiopia." Fabian let go of his shoulders and patted his right shoulders with a grin as he said, "She will do it. Don't worry yourself over it.". Oliver thanked his friend for being him some support, then he looked at his watch. It was time to bet at the meeting, he began to march towards the conference room saying, "Let's hope that you're right.". Fabian soon followed him to the meeting. Earlier... Adela walked out of the conference room first as everyone else soon exited out of the heated room. She was met by faces of a couple people, one was Oliver as he sighed passed her. Then out of nowhere, Jetport began to walk to the stairs and said towards her, "Follow me, President. I need to tell you something.". She at first looked at the forty year old and then followed, "Don't fold under the pressure, they will take that to use against you. These people are fighting their own battles against each other. A battle that will be a win or a lose, according to them...". Adela knew a bit of what he meant about the battles due to her grandfather, Don. He used to explain about the life of being in politics to other family members. One time, he said that being in politics is like a war its self after the hard at the office. She nodded her head in agreement and finish the sentence, "You just have to see who wins and losses.". She smiled as she realized what he was saying, "My grandfather said it one time in an interview.". Jetport grinned at her remark about the quote and kept on walking until they got to the Red Salon, he stopped and waited until Adela was nearby. The President didn't know why she was here in the salon until Jetport walked inside the room and said, "This room is where politics are being used with other countries. The reason why we put them in there is because, it shows them that we are still powerful. Even known, we are not as powerful as we were. The portrait of Empress Maria Theresa shows us that we have a rich history like them. And the gold shows us that we still have value in this world." Still confused about why they are here, she asked the question, "Why are you telling me all of this and why are we here?". He said, "Because, politics are the life line of the country- besides food, military, and the other good stuff. Something happens in the politics and we don't react to it fast enough, then we lost a chance. Take the war between Spain and Ethiopia, if we just let them do it, then they will become too powerful to stop. Even if it's just a written statement, that could pause them. Anything other than just avoiding it would help us in the end, even if we get ourselves in a war." "That still doesn't make sense at all" said the President as she stool there, confused as ever. "You will get it someday, it is just your first day in office.". The clock on the wall out of the salon showed that the meeting was going to start backup again. The Vice President began to walk towards the conference room with hope to see the meeting end. The President stool there for a bit as she looked at Empress Maria Theresa and then she was scared by the sudden shout of her name. She walked away for the portrait as it was alone in the red room. At the conference room, the place with pack with people talking about what the President is going to do. People are coming up with their own ideas of what she is going to do: Help out Ethiopia or Spain? Go to war with Spain? Or just do nothing? All of these talks were all of sudden gone as the President walked into the room. Everyone stool up for the President as they waited for her to sit down and tell them about her decision. She walked to her chair and sat on it as she sighed and said, "Everyone now can sit down.". The people began to sit down as she was getting ready to respond to the ongoing war in Africa. The room grew silent as everyone was waiting for the answer, even Oliver was holding his breath. Other people in the room were getting ready to list down on what will be the issues and how they will respond to them in time. Many people were hoping that in someway, Ethiopia will get the support it needs against Spain. The only ones that were against the idea were the people responsible for health and economy. She began to tell the room, even the country, her decision as she coughed and started to speak, "My decision for the war in Africa is that we support Ethiopia by giving them aid both to the citizens and the military. I will tell the world about my support towards Ethiopia at noon tomorrow. I also will have to get ready for Spain's reaction to our decision of supporting the Ethiopia. No doubt that they are going to be upset. The meeting is over.". She began to walk out of the room, first, with more courage than ever. Oliver shook his head in shock as he had doubt that was going to support one side- even going as far as supporting Ethiopia. Fabian had a huge grin on his face as he said, "What did I tell you. I was right.". "Yeah, you were right." said Oliver as he got and walked out of the meeting room along with others in shock. The Next Day... The microphone of the press conference room was turned on as the President began to enter the room to meet with a mob of people. She began to speak to everyone, "Throughout the years, we have seen Spain grow into an unbearable superpower. A power that has expanded into Africa, now it wants more of it's riches. If they keep expanding their 'republic' all over Africa, they will become a threat to the whole world. Everyone needs to a close eye on Spain and the Iberian League. Hungary condemns the actions of the Spanish Republic. Hungary would like to also sent humanitarian aid to the people of Ethiopia as they are struggling in the war between these nations. This is a message to Spanish Republic that they end their current path of destruction in Africa before it's too late.”

Independent Istanbul "See him?" Two men laid prone atop a rooftop in Istanbul on a brilliantly moonlit night, looking down at an alley where a lone figure walked. He had his hands in his pockets, a hat pulled low over his head. His posture was casual, yet cautious. He wore a sportscoat and tie, something that triggered suspicion almost immediately. Attached to his wrist via handcuff - also a peculiar sight - was a dark leather attache case. The figure whistled a tune to himself, stepping over the trash and filth that cluttered the damp stone below him. He appeared not to be armed, or at least armed with anything concealable. Even then, there were no obvious bumps or bulges where a firearm would be concealed. "That's our man," one of the rooftop observers said to the other. He passed his binoculars and pointed. "Same route every Friday. Same fucking briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Couldn't be more obvious if he was wearing a goddamn Ottoman lapel pin." "You think he's got shit of actual value?" "We know the Ottomans want Istanbul back. The Independents know it. Their observers have spotted buildup. There's going to be an attempt. We wouldn't be here if there wasn't." The figure stepped over an overturned trashcan and turned the corner to head west. Moonlight, broken up by the fire escapes and clotheslines, fell across his body and turned him a brilliant shade of dark blue. Just a few meters up the alley were two Armenian agents, dressed in masks and brandishing revolvers and a kitchen knife. The Ottoman courier had no idea. He walked calmly past the two hiding Armenians, still completely unaware. He only then realized what was going on when one of them ran out, grabbed him by the neck, and thrust him into the brick wall. "Put your fuckin' hands up, dick," commanded the other Armenian as he very purposefully put his revolver to the courier's head and clicked the hammer back. "Shit! Shit!" the Ottoman courier cried. "What's a fella like you doing in these parts of town?" the knife-wielding Armenian asked innocently. "Seems pretty dangerous." The Ottoman tried to move, but the Armenian pressed him further into the wall. The revolver-toting agent reached into his back pocket and took out a brown leather wallet. Opening it up, he grinned. "Pretty good, pretty good. Lots of liras on this guy." "Please! No!" the Ottoman shouted, before the agent with the knife slipped a hand over his mouth. "Just take it easy, will ya? It's easier if you don't struggle." The Armenian with the gun took his keys next, and then noticed the briefcase. "What's this?" he asked. He reached to it, drawing an instinctive attempt from the Ottoman to push the intruder away. "Business secrets?" "Goddammit, you can have my wallet! Is that enough?" the Ottoman pleaded, muffled by the hand over his mouth. "I want to know what's in here, though," said the revolver-toting agent. He ran his hands over the handcuff. "Especially since it's fucking cuffed to your wrist..." "Maybe his wife likes handcuffs and shit," suggested the other agent. "Tie her up and have a go, yeah?" The Ottoman offered no response. "Can I have the key, please?" asked the agent with the revolver. He nudged the Ottoman in the back of the head with it, cool metal sending shivers down the victim's spine. "Listen, I can shoot you here and now and get the key. So would you rather be dead or alive at the end of this series of events?" The Ottoman hesitated for a moment. "Alive," he muttered. "What was that?" asked the knifeman. "Alive." He seemed almost shamed. "Where's the key?" asked the gunman. The key was in the Ottoman's breast pocket. It unlocked the handcuffs effortlessly, and the Armenian gunman took the case without further issue. He opened up the silver latches and took a look inside, nodding. "I can't read this shit but I think I'll keep it," he commented. "It's a nice case, too. Now why don't you head on out before my friend here stabs you?" The knifeman grabbed hold of the Ottoman's collar and tossed him down to the pavement, before running away wordlessly. The gunman waited a second, putting his gun back into his belt. "If you like, you can call the police. But we'll be long gone." He, too, ran. His footsteps echoed dully on the concrete and he dashed into the darkness, leaving the Ottoman lying facedown in the alleyway. After a few moments, he pushed himself up from the floor, fuming. The goddamn Armenians. Who else would have jumped him in an alley? But now he had to report the loss of the documents. He needed to do so quickly, so the powers at be could have a chance to undo what had just happened. So he ran back to the embassy, as fast as he could. The Armenians got back to theirs faster, and by the time the Ottoman courier had explained his case to the skeptical code room, the Armenians had telegraphed the secret documents straight to the NSS and the waiting eyes of President Hasmik Assanian. Yerevan, Armenia The code room of the National Security Service was located underground in what used to be a wine cellar. Underneath vaulted stone ceilings bearing carvings of bottles, grapes, and idealized vineyards were the best cryptologists in the nation, aided by their Polish advisers. They sat at typewriters connected to state-of-the-art codebreaking machines: mostly of Polish origin. Much of this advanced technology was exchanged via a secret program referred to as Operation Beta, where the Poles would send their cutting-edge machines and systems to specialized Armenian organizations to test them against the Ottomans in real conflicts, where issues could be identified long before Poland had to go to war. A particularly stand-out example were the wire-guided missiles utilized by select Armenian Army tank and helicopter groups in the war against Ottoman targets, showcasing capabilities and deficiencies that were addressed by design bureaus in Poland after reports were issued. Polish code machines were used to crack the Ottomans' ciphers in exchange for the sharing of the exploited information between Armenia and Poland. In the back, behind rows of desks manned by clerks and typists - women, mostly, recruited as part of a drive to train women for administrative jobs in the military and security sectors - was a white door with the painted words: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - ABSOLUTELY NO ENTRY." Inside was the communications room of the cryptographic department, and two men stood around a fax machine. One was Colonel Victor Ohanian, a member of the Armenian Army Intelligence Corps currently attached as the intelligence and planning liaison to President Assanian's staff. The other was Serzh Dashnakian, the manager of the NSS Cryptography Service. A noted historian - he held a teaching position at the prestigious Armenian National University in Yerevan - with a vested interest in spycraft, Dashnakian had become interested in codebreaking after researching the Great War. At independence, he became the biggest champion of the Armenian intelligence codebreaking service, going so far as to petition Assanian personally for expanded NSS cryptology doctrine. He used his connections in Poland - established during the authorship of his book about Great War cryptology to jumpstart Polish-Armenian intelligence cooperation and, most importantly, bring Operation Beta to include cryptanalysis machines. The fax machine spat out several pages of documents, communicated from the Armenian embassy in Independent Istanbul. Sent over via radio-facsimile, as the telephone wires between Armenia and Turkey had been cut alongside diplomatic relations, the documents were grainy and monochrome, but still readable. Colonel Ohanian picked a fresh sheet off of the printer tray and turned it over. It had not been encrypted, oddly enough. He turned to Dashnakian. "Where did the embassy get these from?" he asked, puzzled. "Fieldwork," was the reply from Dashnakian, with a little smile. "Generally they don't encrypt courier communication." Colonel Ohanian nodded, and the two men waited silently until the documents finished printing. Then, without further word, Ohanian shuffled them into their correct order, put a staple through the corner, and slipped them into a maroon folder marked, somewhat cliche, as "TOP SECRET." It would be going to the President and his security cabinet, who were currently sitting in a conference room with the Director. From what the Embassy had told them, these documents indicated that Ottoman action on Istanbul was immediate. The Ottoman Embassy had been directed to destroy its sensitive information and prepare for evacuation in the near future. Military forces had been drilling nearby - albeit on a Turkish military base with no observable difference from standard procedure - and massing for an invasion. The Independent Istanbul Council had believed this for a long time, and had been preparing defenses and asking for help from the Greeks just across the other border. With the Greeks moving in, the Ottomans were motivated to start a skirmish for their capital before they got there. Deliberately, the men walked through the hallways and up the marble staircases. Past paintings of Armenian saints and warriors, they strode confidently carrying leather attache cases. Dashnakian led the way to the conference room, at the end of the building. Two armed guards were posted at the wooden double doors, dressed in their olive uniforms. They yielded to Ohanian's ID card, and pushed the door open. Inside were President Assanian, Vice-President Pollundrian, Defense Minister Ivakon, and the Director of the NSS: Levon Ladaryan. Ladaryan looked out the window at downtown Yerevan just across the river, while Assanian enjoyed whiskey from a glass. Pollundrian read a magazine, sitting on a wooden chair in the corner next to the flag, while Ivakon leaned against the wall nearby. They all looked at once as Ohanian and Dashnakian arrived, carrying their vital intelligence. Nobody spoke as they dropped their briefcases on the long table and called the leaders to attention. "I brought enough copies for everyone," Dashnakian announced, "and we have to keep it short. This is hot off the printer and already, action is imminent." The men at the end of the table sat down, all gazing intently at the two intelligence-men standing before them. "We strongly believe that the Turkish invasion of Istanbul is imminent. Their military maneuvers, starting basically since the breakaway, have been getting more intense over the last few months. The pullback of Ottoman forces from their lost colonies has been managed and a large force has been assembled just next to Istanbul. The Istanbulites have been concerned about this since their inception and have been asking other players in the region for help. Greece has already been contacted. We know since they told us they might need assistance if Turkey tried to make a move. Now we have everything short of a confirmation in this letter asking the Turkish embassy in Istanbul to destroy its sensitive documents and prepare for evacuation this coming week. In addition, census data is being used to identify Turkish nationals still living in the city and prepare them for evacuation - or at least to identify and avoid targeting neighborhoods with significant Turkish population." "Basically, this is about as incriminating as a diplomatic message will get," Ohanian explained, briefly taking off his cover to run a hand through his greying black hair. "They mention in public that it is not their aim to use force to retake Istanbul but rather to settle their status through negotiation. That is a lie. They are preparing an invasion. At the moment, it looks like the Istanbulites and the Greeks are going to bear the full force. All of the relevant information is on the table." Assanian wrinkled his pale face and looked down at the papers, then back up at Ohanian and Dashnakian. "Thank you, gentlemen. Victor, head back to the palace and get your staff up to speed and prepare for additional information. Mister Dashnakian, I trust you will go to him and the militaries and have them cohesively formulate and intelligence plan?" "Yes, sir." "Alright then, we don't have much time to waste." The two intelligence-men nodded, snapped off crisp salutes, and exited as quickly as they arrived. The guards on the other side opened the doors, and they hurried back to their positions. Inside, Assanian and the others exchanged looks. The situation for them had just escalated. "I wasn't expecting anything this soon, not with tensions between us like this," the Director mumbled, shaking his head. "They don't want another war," Assanian reminded them. "They're in tatters. Istanbul is too important to lose forever, but they won't start a war with us. They want it quick and easy and hope that they can get it before it gets messy." "What about the Greeks?" asked Ladaryan softly. "We will help them, but keep fighting contained to the Istanbul area," Ivakon offered in his thick Russian accent, pacing behind the table and smoking a cigarette. "This is the doctrine we've written for months. I've talked to my counterpart through the Foreign Ministry and this is what we've agreed upon. Just enough to tip the tide in favor of the Greeks, but not a full-fledged restart of the war. It's a measured response this time. Hasmik and I have talked." "Then that's good, I'll keep my eye on the area," the Director affirmed. He went back to the wall and leaned against it, sighing deeply. His wrinkled face bore scares slashed across his cheek: Shrapnel from a grenade that had exploded near him during the initial fighting for Armenia. Despite his status as a high-ranking member of the political hierarchy, he viewed his job as a way to prevent war. A small skirmish was an acceptable tradeoff for another raging, three year ethnic conflict. "Our paratroopers haven't had much experience, they weren't deployed during the war," Ivakon said. "But our plans have them drop in over the city to support the Greeks. Quick, effective, and a nice show of force. If the order comes, we'll be there." "We've got to be ready soon," said Pollundrian, distantly from the back of the room. He snubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "Ottomans are going to fight tooth and nail for that city, just like they did in the 1400s. Let's not have a repeat of Constantinople." Joint Base Sevan Lake, Armenia The conditioning was over, the Candidates thoroughly indoctrinated. The weeks of being woken up violently and forced out into the cold mornings for physical training were mostly over. No longer did the instructors head in at four in the morning and fire off blanks to get the officers-to-be out of bed, but rather downgraded to just an alarm at six and a stern call to formation over the intercom. Physical training was still commenced, but it was easier for them. No more two hour runs in the wooded Sevan hills until everyone threw up on the side of the road. They had much more important things to do. Classroom instruction of tactics, weaponry, leadership, and anything else an officer should know was conducted. The Candidates learned how to use their platoons and squads to take over simulated enemy positions in wargames conducted not unlike a board game. They learned what a squad automatic weapon's most efficient suppression technique was so that they could use it to keep an enemy down behind cover. They learned how to stagger columns to prevent bunching up. They were trained constantly, day and night: Knowledge drilled into their heads. Then came the field week, where they would practice these. Abbasian, weighed down with a full combat load and a K19U training rifle - a lower-powered version of the ubiquitous K19 battle rifle found within every Armenian force - loaded with rubber bullets and smoke rifle grenades in lieu of traditional bullets and explosives, walked beside his roommate on their way to the staging point. His roommate had been the same Corporal sitting beside him on the bus, a Yazidi with curly black hair and brown skin: Hassam Sulayev. The Yazidi didn't talk too much, but he was evidently born in Azerbaijan before being forced out with his family during the chaos there. He spoke Azeri, Armenian, and Kurdish fluently, and was a similar pickup for the Foreign Legion. They both hypothesized that they were picking foreign-born Armenian soldiers to form an officer core. Diaspora members in particular, from France, America, Russia, and everywhere else, were valued. Their language and cultural skills would enable them to connect to their men and assimilate them into Armenian society faster than a regular unit. It was hoped that the Armenian Foreign Legion would follow the French model, being used as elite shock troops: A grand source of pride for the men there. The staging point was a circle of tents and rickety-looking buildings in the middle of a forest clearing. The whole "blue" platoon was there, while the "red" platoon had situated themselves atop a fortified hill in the training area called "Kajman Point." It was representative of a typical outpost, fortified and staffed with an equal force. It was a challenge for the blue platoon, since the attackers were traditionally at a disadvantage. Their objective was simple: They were to take Kajman Point and kill, capture, or force out the red platoon. It was just them, with no simulated air or mortar support. Daylight made it difficult for stealth. The platoon leader, a young and short native of Hrazdan named Uzejikyan who looked dwarfed by his flak jacket and helmet, gathered his Candidates around while he stood atop some wooden ammunition boxes with his plans in hand. The plan called for a sudden, aggressively violent strike against the flank of the fortification. The defenders would be caught off-guard and the flood of attacking troops would be enough to collapse Kajman Point from within. The strike would come in from the heavily-wooded northern area. Abbasian and Sulayev were squad leaders, taking the lead while the other two squads followed behind. Sulayev headed one of the two weapons squads, packing rockets, grenades, and machineguns in support of the raid. Abbasian and the third squad leader would charge up the hill while Sulayev covered him. They trekked through the forest silently, accompanied by an instructor who was grading their every move. Clad in camouflage facepaint and with grass strapped to their helmets, Abbasian's squad believed themselves to be masters of the land. The thought themselves as a pack of wolves, ready to strike and kill. This illusion lasted exactly up until Uzejikyan - walking alongside Abbasian - was hit in the lower back by a rubber bullet. "Fuck!" he shouted as he fell into the dirt. The rubber bullets didn't kill, but they hurt enough to leave a valuable lesson. "Your platoon leader is down, Candidate! Take the fucking lead!" an instructor answered, running throughout the forest and waving the blue platoon down. "Abbasian, you're the platoon leader now!" The quiet hollow pops of rubber bullets hitting their marks - there was no rifle report from a training rifle - sounded as a hail of gunfire came into their position. "Scatter!" shouted Abbasian, waving his hands to the side. Sulayev echoed the command, and the platoon scattered behind trees and berms to return fire. They started shooting in the direction of where they thought the fire was coming from in an attempt to suppress the hostiles. The two sides exchanged fire for a moment, another one of Abbasian's men was lost when a bullet plonked off of his helmet. The enemy disappeared into the forest. Abbasian ordered the platoon to regroup while Sulayev jogged out of his fighting position. "It was a harassment squad, they left the main base. We need to cut them off and destroy them before they get back." Abbasian nodded and his hand shot up: "Hey, we're catching these guys! Hunt and destroy, gentlemen! They went south, let's go!" Aware that they might be led into another ambush, the platoon took off. They sprinted through the forest, trying desperately to keep up with their adversaries. Through the radio, Abbasian ordered the two other squads to branch off and try to intercept from the west. When the north group caught up, they would shoot at the harassment squad and bog them down. Seconds later, one of Abbasian's troops started firing wildly into the woods. A hundred meters in front of them was a creek, and the red squad was scrambling across it. They had jumped down into it and were wading across while Abbasian gave the order to engage. The seventeen men who were left collapsed into firing positions and let loose. Smoke grenades were tossed into the creek, instructors scored kills based on the simulated blast radius. Three enemy troops were lost to gunfire while another was killed by a grenade. While smoke grenades didn't actually hurt the victims, the instructors were sure to shoot them anyways, if only to make sure they knew they were dead. Abbasian's western flank came in moments later and finished off the red squad. "All clear!" someone shouted. "All clear!" echoed Sulayev from the northern flank. "All clear! Red squad is down, let's reform!" commanded Abbasian, jumping down into the creek where two red team soldiers sat against a tree, clutching their hits and moaning. He looked over at them. "That hurt, fellas?" asked Abbasian with a grin. "Yeah, I wouldn't recommend it," grumbled one of them. "Shit's gonna leave a nasty-ass bruise, man." Abbasian smiled again and jogged back to the forefront of the platoon. Sulayev remained crouched down behind a tree branch, rifle sighted down south. "I don't think they'll come out of their base to get these guys, if that's what your suggesting," observed Abbasian. "I'm not sure if the squad leader radioed back in that he was under attack, but he must have. They're already thing on defenders, we can exploit the advantage." "We can't come in from the north," Sulayev responded, shaking his head. "They know we're here." "Actually," the platoon leader said, an idea shining in his head, "we can." He dropped down to the dirt and grabbed a stick from nearby. He motioned for the other squad leaders to come over while their teams pulled security. Scraping away the grass with his feet to reveal bare dirt, Abbasian drew a circle that represented Kajman Point. He put an X at the north, at the creek. "We leave a squad here to play diversion. The rest of us heads down to the south. The squad up here begins their assault just as we would have normally, spread out to maintain the illusion of multiple elements. While the defenders believe that a frontal assault is underway, the rest of us head in from the south. They'll be pointed in the opposite direction and we can overwhelm few, if any guards." As he spoke, he drew arrows across the dirt representing what he was planning. "What if they do look for their lost squad?" one of the squad leaders brought up. "It'll be a squad or fireteam element, nothing more," assured Sulayev. He nodded in approval, cradling the rifle in his arms. "We can ambush them like they did to us, except we don't pussy out and retreat." Abbasian nodded. "This all look good?" he asked. "Any suggestions?" "I think my only addition is that we leave Sulayev's weapon's squad up here," one of the squad leaders offered. "We have the heavy weapons to mimic a full assault. More firepower with less people." "Good, I'll take it," Sulayev said instantly. Abbasian nodded again, standing up to drag his foot across the plans and destroy them. "We'll circle wide around Kajman Point and radio when we're in position." The sun began to set over the forests of Sevan as the blue platoon circled the fort. They were tired, dirty, and running low on water. The escapade through the forest had exhausted them. It took them almost two hours to reach their strike position. Abbasian believed that the extra two hours of uncertainty would affect the defenders negatively: They had no idea what was out there and what had happened to their scout team. Anyone could come from anywhere. The tensions would be stewing, they would make mistakes. So when Abbasian radioed in for the north group to begin their mock raid, the defenders flocked to destroy what they thought was an outnumbering onslaught. A firefight broke out to the north of Kajman Point and Sulayev's squad did their best to pretend to assault the compound. He was losing men, and he only had a few to spare. Abbasian was leading a charge up the steep dirt hill by the time Sulayev was hit and put out of action. With a battle cry, the blue team surged over the sandbagged walls of Kajman Point and massacred the unsuspecting red team. It was nearly nightfall before Abbasian hoisted the blue flag over the battlements of Kajman Point. A truck had arrived at the top of the fort to load the two platoons into for the trip back to the barracks. Abbasian loaded up his soldiers, counting them as they went aboard. Last was him and Sulayev, who packed up the tailgate and locked it in. An instructor headed in with them, sitting across on the other bench. He nodded in approval at the blue platoon leader, simply stating: "Good job, Candidate Abbasian." Sulayev smiled and patted his roommate on the back. Abbasian let out a heavy sigh and leaned back into the seat. He was just as exhausted as the others. Uzejikyan, sitting next to the instructor, rubbed his lower back and offered his own congratulations. "You'd make a fuckin' fantastic PL one day, man."

Washington D.C, the United States of America:

It was an exceptionally busy day at the Brazilian embassy in America, as people both rushed around carrying a wide variety of official papers and stood around and watched the news as new information concerning the invasion of Ethiopia trickled out of Africa.

One of the staffers shook his head. “I swear, goddamn it, they had to choose the absolute worst time to do this. Had this been the beginning or even the middle of Claro’s term, he would have ordered troops to Africa in no time. Now with the election he knows sending troops would be a disaster for his opinion rating.”

“I don’t care how many people want to hop on a boat and sail over there to fight, the majority of people wouldn’t care about Spain until they’re landing in Recife,” remarked another. "You hear that Hungary's offering aid to Ethiopia now? Maybe if there's enough of us Spain can't kill us all."

“Hey, everyone! Listen up!” shouted Luis Geraldo, the head diplomat of the embassy. “I have just been informed that no less than the Minister of Foreign Relations herself is about to show up on our front step in ten minutes!”

The look of shock on the staff’s faces was evident, many of them had never met the woman who was in charge of all diplomacy for the Republica do Brasil.

“And as such, you will clean up all this mess and have everything looking respectable by the time she arrives, lest you be headed back to Brasilia. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” came the chorus.

“Good.”

The next few minutes were a frenzy of activity, as everything was neatly replaced back into its proper locations, people went back to their work desks, and televisions were muted.

So much so, that when the Minister was escorted in her first comment was on how clean and orderly everything looked. There was an inaudible sigh of relief amongst the embassy staff, and things quickly returned to normal.

Luis escorted her into his office, and after shutting the door he returned to his seat.

“Mrs. Moreno. To what do I owe the pleasure of your sudden visit?”

Adelina settled herself into the seat directly in front of his desk.

“I do apologize for the sudden nature of this visit, President Claro did not even inform me my presence would be necessary here until yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Geraldo balked at this news. “You must have been on-“

“The first flight this morning, yes,” Adelina said exasperatedly. “It was quite a shock to me as well.”

“What business here up in the Far North is so important?” Luis asked half-jokingly.

Adelina took a breath. “President Claro has sent me to personally attempt to conduct a reset of relations between the United States and Brazil. With Ethiopia, our closest friends, under attack and Addis Ababa predicted to fall within the next two months, Brazil urgently needs new allies.”

“America is one of the few places with little Spanish or Chinese influence, Mexico notwithstanding. But that is not expected to last for much longer for the same reason: when Africa is free of socialist sentiment, the Americas will be the next target. We need to ensure that we are powerful enough to reject Spanish influence, and we cannot do that alone. We are, after all, only the biggest fish in our small pond.”

Luis rubbed his beard in thought. “I definitely follow your line of thinking, Senhora minister.” “What do you need from me?”

“Some stationary would be nice,” she remarked.

---

To Lillian Mather, Secretary of State of the United States of America:

Greetings. I offer both my congratulations and the congratulations of my President, Adriano Claro, for President Norman’s victory in the recent election. The ouster of President Eric Fernandez is a major victory for the American people in the struggle against communist influence. As you know well, Brazil and the United States have had tense relations under the Fernandez administration, mainly because of its association with the Third International. Now that this membership is over, however, Brazil would like to extend the hand of friendship to the United States, and collaborate to ensure the stability of the Americas against outside threats.

To that effect, President Claro has asked me to request the initiation of formal diplomatic talks in order to reset United States-Brazil relations and determine in what areas our two nations can work together in the decades to come.

-Sincerely,
Adelina Moreno, Minister of Foreign Relations for the República Federativa do Brasil

Brasilia, Brazil:

“Olẚ, everyone.” The President settled down in his seat at the end of the Cabinet chamber in the Planalto Palace, the headquarters of the Brazilian executive branch. “Please, have a seat.”

The eight present ministers and the Vice President, Jonathan Feliz, sat down, leaving only one open seat – for the Minister of Foreign Relations, absent on a diplomatic mission to America – at the table.

Claro straightened his back, and leaned slightly forward. “I hereby call this meeting of the Cabinet of Brazil to order.” He then smiled congenially. “Hopefully not my last, certainly?” The others laughed, if perhaps a little nervously, as everyone was before an election.

He first turned to the Minister of Agriculture, as was customary. Armando Monteiro was his name, son of one of the oldest plantation families in Brazil. “I am happy to report that the subsidies for chemical fertilizer have been enormously productive, Senhor President. My statistics show that over the last four years, agricultural output has increased by no less than twenty-one percent, while the number of farmers continues to decline. This clearly shows our farmers are not only significantly more productive, they are also more efficient. There is some concern surrounding the runoff of these fertilizers into the Amazon-“ Monteiro shot a dark look at the Minister of Science, who coughed in agreement. “Those concerns will no doubt be remedied with time.” Claro nodded, and turned to the Minister of Defense.

“President Claro, with news of the Spanish attack on Ethiopia our generals have recommended a strengthening of the defenses along the Atlantic coast, a suggestion I readily agreed to. We have stationed additional troops and aircraft along the more susceptible areas, and emplaced additional anti-aircraft guns.” Several members of the Cabinet looked dubious at the idea that mere anti-air guns could defend against jet aircraft. “I have brought to you the idea of creating physical defenses, of actually constructing forts or garrisons on the coast to make an amphibious landing even more impossible.” Casimiro Silva was loyal to his core, a true military man, who would never consent to any momentous decisions without consulting him, an attribute which Claro greatly appreciated.

Claro sat thoughtfully for a moment, before shaking his head. “I feel that would be both expensive and premature. We have no evidence that Spain even intends to attack us, so far.” He looked next at the Minister of Trade and Development, Estevao Madeira, who had been shuffling through papers. Upon noticing Adriano’s gaze, he hurriedly began speaking. “President Claro, our industrial base has continued to grow under our watchful supervision. Oil production is up considerably, and the chief executive of Petrobras believes that by the end of the century we should be competitive with Spain in the volume of oil and oil product production.” He shuffled through his papers once more, before pulling out one in particular. “The most pressing issue now is the proposed Venezuelan pipeline.”

“Oh, goodness. This again?” Claro frowned considerably. “I am all for the expanding of our petroleum production, but I have heard about the Spanish pipelines in Africa. There are tales of entire villages sick, wells poisoned, as a result of leaks. Pipelines are far too prone to damage for me to ever consider piping oil from Venezuela to our refineries in Brazil. If I am reelected, I firmly intend to veto that bill regardless of what splinter faction of my party votes for it.” “With that settled, I will now hear the report of the Minister of Education.” Calista Torres, the youngest member of the Cabinet, spoke up. “The Expanded Rural Education act you passed three years ago has proven invaluable to my department. Literacy rates in rural areas have increased from 50 to 75 percent, and the overall literacy rate from 80 to 85. In my firm opinion, the state of education in this country has never been better.”

The Minister of Finance, Eduardo Victore, straightened his glasses. “The 1979-1980 budget is extremely solid thus far, Senhor President. The national debt has been reduced to 122.4 billion real, which is marvelous considering that is barely over 10% of our GDP. As our population ages social security expenditures are expected to rise significantly, but by then we should have the financial resources to combat it.”

The Minister of Justice, Benjamim Franco, knowing his turn was next, quickly followed up with his report, despite its significantly darker tone. “There has been a recent outbreak of crime in the coastal cities, with the expansion of both organized and petty crime. Interior cities’ crime rates continue to decline, but this explosive crime wave we are seeing is both without precedent and unexpected. Police authorities have ramped up enforcement, but the end is not yet in sight.” President Claro looked sharply dismayed. “Ensure that they are getting all of the resources necessary to combat this. If we need to send in the army, we will.” Franco nodded. “Of course, sir.”

Claro turned next to the Minister of Science, as the meeting began to draw to a close. “Senhor Estevez, have we made any notable breakthroughs on the rocketry project yet? Anything of the kind?” Joao looked remarkably sour. The failures of his department were well known throughout the government and were beginning to gain a reputation as a complete waste of time. “As you well know, President Claro, our scientists are trying as best as possible to attempt to create an experimental jet or rocket engine. As we speak we are experimenting on multiple different types of fuel.” Monteiro, eager to rectify the slight about the fertilizers, could not resist commenting. “Have you ever considered that maybe there’s nothing wrong with the fuel? Maybe your rockets are just bad?” Claro gave a sympathetic look, but said “Please, Armando. Let the man speak.” Clearly attentive to the dogpile which was forming on him, Joao merely said, “I will have them redouble their efforts.”

The Minister of Labor, Marcelo Neri, looked up from his newspaper and laughed. “Senhor President, surely we do not need a minister of labor with yourself as President, but perhaps I will be of use to a Liberal administration.” “As a result of your enlightened policies, workplace productivity has continued to rise…” He let that sink in for a moment. “Except amongst the state-owned industries. There, it has essentially remained stagnant. I would recommend increased discipline to match those of private enterprise, if they are to remain competitive.”

Claro nodded, and returned his gaze to the center of the table. “I’d like to thank you all for your reports. I hereby declare a recess.” The ministers filed out, and Claro turned around in his chair merely to gaze out of the window at the sloped walkways and neatly trimmed grass of the Three Powers Plaza outside.

Beria Street, Batumi As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, weary Georgians dragged themselves home to avoid Polats patrols after curfew. The common power cuts plunged entire neighbourhoods into darkness, making a birds eye view of the troubled city state a patchwork of light and darkness. This also made the city twice as dangerous at night. Beria Street was a hub of activity compared to the timid suburbs. At the end of the street, a makeshift blockade had been hastily erected, consisting of parked jeeps packed together with sheets of metal thrown on the sides. Groups of Polats men crouched behind their street-wide barricade, each clutching a rifle and staring at the oncoming crowd of Georgians in steely silence. At the opposite side of the street, the marchers moved at a steady, well aware of the dangers Polats men possessed but showing no fear. At the front of the crowd, forming a thin human shield for the unarmed protesters, a vanguard of armed Georgian Guards had formed. In typical Guard fashion, they clutched every kind of weapon in their hands, from handguns to assault rifles. "That's close enough" growled a Turk over a megaphone, clearly leading the force who sat behind . Some marchers slowed and fell silent, unsure whether to continue but their comrades marched onwards, screaming profanities at their oppressors. A group of communists began a chant of "UNITE! UNITE!" which was eagerly copied by the rest of the march. "Go home, citizens! This protest is illegal and all of you will be prosecuted under the Illegal Gatherings Act! It is passed curfew. Return to your homes" called the Turkish major from behind his barricade. Despite talking into a megaphone, the Turks words were drowned out by the roar of "Unite! Unite!" from the protestors. A large Georgian broke out from the crowd and ran towards the barricade, a flaming bottle in his hands. With an audible grunt, he swung his arm back and then threw it as hard as he could towards the barricade. The bottle sailed through the air in a wide arc before falling short of a metal barricade, exploding into a mess of petrol, alcohol and glass across the road. A small fire formed where the bottle had smashed before sputtering out in moments. "Shit" said the Georgian, jogging back towards the safety of the marchers. Where his projectile failed, others did not. Encouraged by the mans balls, soon pieces of rock, bottles and even a piece of furniture were being thrown at the barricade. Some hit their targets, most did not but they kept throwing at the encouragement of Davit, who had flung a rock through the window of jeep from halfway down the street. "We are warning you for the final time, citizens" crackled the Turkish major over his megaphone. "Return to your homes or face immediate arrest". The marchers kept walking, chanting "Unite! Unite!" and profanities at the Turk. A rock flew dangerously close to the Turkish majors head, to which he gave a yelp of surprise. "Right, fuck this" shouted the Turk, throwing his megaphone onto the ground. It shattered into pieces of plastic across the ground. "Sir?" asked an officer. "Fire at will. Polat will have my bollocks if we let this scum into Freedom Square" growled the Turkish major, angrily dismissing the officer with a wave of his hand. The officer bit his lip. It was against his better judgement to follow such a rash order. Provoking these protesters could potentially turn them into rioters. But, he was still only an officer. It wasn't his job to question orders. "Yes, sir" he nodded bitterly before turning to his men. "FIRE AT WILL." Outskirts of Batumi The seargent gulped on the cannister greedily. "Jesus Christ, I needed that" he panted, wiping a stray drop of water from chin with his sleeve. He handed the water back to Adamia, who took it with a bemused grin on his face. There were 20 rifles, 10 men, a large dog and a crate of ammunition all crowded in the jeep, which moved slowly down the road. "Seargent Mamuka, correct?" asked the driver, who was also presumably the leader. "Yes...sir? And who are you?" replied Seargent Mamuka. "General Sabuari of the Georgian Guard. These are my men. Perhaps you've heard of our adventures in the countryside?" Everyone in the Guard had heard tales of Sabuari and his cell of guerilla fighters in the countryside surrounding Batumi. They attacked isolated Adjarian barracks, stole from convoys and were rumoured to have more weapons than they knew what to do with, all stolen from dead Turks. Sabuari himself had earned a reputation for being a shaggy tactical genius, as well as being a staunch Georgian nationalist, a devout Orthodox Christian and a radical republican. Seargent Mamuka gulped slightly. "Yes, sir" he said, slightly shocked that Sabuari had even thought about coming to Batumi. "What are you doing in Batumi, sir?" asked Seargent Mamuka, composing himself. "We're helping you lot with your assault on the barracks" shrugged Sabuari, slowly turning a corner in the jeep and peering into the darkness. "B-but that's a secret mission! We weren't told you'd be here, sir" replied Mamuka, confused. "Change of plans" replied the General shortly. The guerillas all chuckled at the confused look on his face. "So how'd you five get caught by Turks?" asked Seargent Janjigava, one of the guerillas, from the front seat. "They jumped us on our way to the barracks, sir" grunted a soldier from the back. "Brown bastards" spat Janjigava. Seargent Mamuka sat back and glanced out the window behind. Five men and the large dog, who only seemed to listen to Sabuari, were sat in open air back. One private gave him a grimace as the large dog licked him across the face and Mamuka could only grin. "So, sir, what's the plan?" asked Mamuka. "Full assault on the front gates of the barracks. When we're in, you and your lads make a beeline for the weapons cache and my lads will cover you" answered Sabuari. "You what, mate?" snorted Mamuka, wondering if he was joking. Perhaps Sabuari wasn't the tactical genius everyone made him out to be. "First of all, Seargent, you will refer to me as 'sir', as I am highest ranking officer on this fucking mission" snarled Sabuari, pushing down on the brakes of the jeep sharply and glaring back at him. "Secondly, according to the information given to me by your fucking higher ups, the barracks will be half empty as every other soldier is out in the streets suppressing Georgians protesting. If you don't want my help, Seargent, I can kick you all out and drive back into the countryside. Is that clear, Seargent Mamuka?". "Yes, sir" replied Mamuka, pouting slightly. "Good" grinned Sabuari, speeding the jeep up slightly. "Now prepare yourselves. It's going to be a long night".

Zagreb, Slovene-Croatia Pavic moved toward the presidential office at a quick pace; there were news, urgent news. On his right hand were a pile of clipped papers, typed in an organized fashion, line by line until it filled with bottom. A few pages had the occasional graph or chart. Pavic was in his early forties, and like the many of the other people in the palace, he dressed formally and walked firmly. He navigated around the hallway mazes, passing through groups of people muttering to each other. Pavic knew the presidential palace by heart; after all, he was one of Dvornik's several assistants and advisors. Soon enough he had reached the tall double doors of the office. Pavic gave the door one short series of knocks. "Come on in, Pavic. I know it's you," a voice responded from inside. Pavic took a deep breath and opened the doors – his body peeked in, seeing a man in a brown suit. Fifty years had aged Dvornik. A tie lay folded next to the table lamp, and the light-gray haired man leaned back on his seat, fiddling with the radio set in front of his stacked papers. Pavic's message was quick and short: "Serbia's in the Iberian League, Mr. President." "I understand, Pavic," Dvornik answered, straightening up and adjusting the lamp slightly toward him. "The ongoing conflict between Spain and Ethiopia is a problem toward our own interests. Our trade routes are stuck: Spain controls the Gibraltar, and now, the Suez Canal. Issues may start to get ugly in the Mediterranean. And now Serbia's just adding to those problems. Inactivity won't do anymore." "...And Hungary, sir." "Yes, Hungary," Dvornik muttered, his hands interlocking with each other. "My concern lies not with Ethiopia. Honestly...I don't give a shit about the affairs in their continent. They lie a thousands of kilometers away from us, through land and water. Aid would be impossible either way. But if we don't take sides, Serbia will become more confident and attempt to take Bosnia away, and soon enough, our own nation." Dvornik sighed and slid inward, placing one wrinkled hand at the table, and another on his forehead. He recalled the start of the conflict between Slovene-Croatia and Serbia; he was only a high school student when Reunification occurred. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, he had made his decision. "Send a diplomat to Hungary," he suddenly replied. "We need to make sure Serbia doesn't act out of hand. Right now, we stay quiet until Serbia acts, or we're certain that Prussia, Austria, and Hungary backs us up." Pavic nodded quietly and took his leave; his footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Dvornik looked back at his papers. "Make your move, Dragan." –––––––––– Adél Bak, President of the Republic of Hungary. Mrs. President, I must give you my approval and sincere respect toward your recent speech toward the increasingly imperialistic actions of the Iberian League. Such actions threaten the peace and stability of Africa and Southern Europe – we, the Dual Republic of Slovene-Croatia, are against these aggressive actions. We are also concerned with the joining of Serbia in the Iberian League. They, like Spain, have a history of constant aggression and intimidation. We fear, that with the help of Spain, Serbia will begin to harass and throw the Balkan countries into a state of war for its own interests of expansion. So we would like to send two diplomats to Budapest for talks over this increasingly frightening conflict. Serbia may intend to threaten the prosperity of our nation; it may threaten the prosperity of yours as well. Rijeka and Pula will also be opened up to assist in bringing aid to the Ethopians beyond the Mediterranean. With respect, Andrej Dvornik, President of the Republic of Slovene-Croatia.

Jackson, Mississippi “Link arms!” The heavyset black man in a suit and tie shouted over the din at the black protestors. They all stood in a long line down Jackson’s Main Street, over two hundred of them blocking traffic as they marched towards the Mississippi state capitol building. Looming ahead of them were Mississippi State Patrolmen in riot gear complete with nightsticks and hard plastic shields. Isaiah Wolde, the Ethiopian, stood front and center with his arms looped through those of James Calhoun and James’ daughter Sarah. Sweat beaded on James’ brow partially due to the stifling early summer heat of Mississippi. The sweat was also due to the sight of the policeman with their clubs. His jaw was still wired shut from a beating the Natchez police had delivered to him ten days earlier. Marching headlong towards more cops with weapons wasn’t appealing to him. James looked at the crowd of white people gathered on both sides of the street to yell at the protestors. The white people on the sidewalk were on the verge of rioting with a police barricade and guards the only thing that kept them in check. It was odd for the police to protect them as they protested, but he imagined it was because they didn’t want the civilians ruining their chance at beating in as many black heads as possible. James caught a glimpse of red hair somewhere on the sidewalk and felt his insides freeze up. He could barely talk with the metal mesh keeping his mouth shut, and he was grateful for that every time Wolde looked his way. Those dark eyes behind the lenses of his glasses seemed to cut right through him and compelled him to confess his sins. He had agreed to be an informant for the Agent Hyatt and the Federal Crime Bureau, helping them track Wolde and his movements. James felt ashamed at acting as a turncoat, selling out this growing movement and his own people for personal gain… but then he looked at Sarah and knew he was doing it for the right reason. He cared about all the negroes out there not getting what was promised to them so long ago, but it wasn’t worth seeing his family suffer. He could suffer being an Uncle Tom as long as Sarah and his two sons were left unharmed… but here she was. She ignored his pleas to stay at home and came to Jackson to walk on the state capital in the name of justice. “Remember something, James,” Wolde said softly in is ear. “In your Bible, the prophet that I take my name from wrote ‘no weapon forged against you shall prevail.’ Remember that.” James felt tears welling in his eyes as he nodded at Wolde and his kind advice. This man who cared so much about justice for his people could not be the demon Hyatt had made him out to be. A shrill whistle broke through the noise and James’ head snapped forward. The state troopers were marching forward to the protestors, nightsticks held at the ready. “Do not fight back!” Wolde yelled. “We are peacefully protesting. Civil disobedience is our right as American citizens. Stay strong and keep moving.” From the back of the crowd, singing started to filter towards the front until everyone was singing, even James who hummed through his closed mouth. “It’s been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come,” the protestors sang en mass as they marched forward to meet the clubs of the white policemen. --- State Department Building Foggy Bottom Washington D.C. “And she’s actually here in D.C.?” Lillian Mather squinted up at Liza. The young staffer nodded to her boss, who cursed and sat back in her chair. She knew from the way the Secretary of State tapped her finger on the wooden desk that she was lost in pensive thought. Liza had been working for the Secretary of State for six years and knew her personally three years prior to coming to work at State. Lillian was her Poli-Sci professor at Columbia and Liza was brought along for the ride when Lillian was appointed Undersecretary of State by President Fernandez. “What should I tell them, ma’am?” Liza finally asked after a long minute of silence from her boss. Lillian looked at the paper on her desk and reread the diplomatic communiqué before she finally spoke. “Brazil’s foreign minister just cold calls us like that, showing up in Washington and wanting to renegotiate our relations." She sighed and looked at her assistant. "Liza, what do you think?” “Really?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “That’s what I pay you the big bucks for, kiddo,” Lillian said with a wry smile. "Enlighten me." “I think they’re trying to find friends to cozy up with,” Liza said without hesitation. “The scuttlebutt is that it’s only a matter of time before Ethiopia falls. All you have to do is look at a globe and you’ll see that Brazil is a perfect beachhead into South America if Spain feels inclined to reach out across the Atlantic. It’s from hunger, ma’am. And there’s the political slant…,” she trailed off. “Don’t tease me, child. Get on with it.” “President Claro is up for reelection next month. Every single report coming out of the country indicates that the race is a complete toss-up. Claro wants a big foreign policy get just before Election Day. I think he’s using us.” “Getting closer to a stronger nation for practical and political reasons… sounds like our own Commander-in-Chief, right?” “It’s a world of haves and have-nots,” Liza said, shrugging again. “We chase China, Brazil chases us, and someone chases Brazil. There’s a political power food chain.” “Right,” Lillian said, smacking her teeth. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. I want you to pass Mrs. Moreno’s message on to the White House, along with a two-page analysis laying out the situation as you just did for me. Ask for official instructions. Get me everything you can about Claro and his opponent, I want to know who we’d like to win this election. After that send her a reply that we have received her offer and it is being mulled over by the White House for an official response, but we can have an unofficial get together. Women diplomats are rare and I’d like to extend a dinner invitation to her just the two of us, or us and translators if need be.” Liza scribbled the Secretary of State’s instructions down on a notepad and nodded furiously while Lillian spoke. “I’m on it,” she said before scurrying out the office to get to work. ---- Chicago Sitting on a bench, Jim Sledge couldn’t help but grin when he saw the crowd gathering in front of the stage in Grant Park. Just from eyeballing the crowd he could tell they were nearly three hundred strong. Most of them were Polish and Italian working class people who got the fliers advertising the rally. They were all from Representative Bill Barnwell’s congressional district and were excited to be there. Not because of Bill, the man was about as exciting as waiting for a bus, but because of the fliers Jim filtered through the district advertising the rally. He made sure to underline that the park gathering would have free beer and barbecue to everyone who showed up while it lasted. It had all the makings of a successful political gathering except one little thing: Sledge didn’t work for Barnwell. Instead, Jim was paid by Bill’s Republican primary challenger Scott Dickson. Dickson was challenging an incumbent who was mostly liked in his district. To win, Jim had to pull a few tricks out of his hat. They called it rat-fucking, and when it came to rat-fucking nobody was better than the Sledgehammer. “Welcome,” Barnwell said as he got on stage and took the mic. “Wow, uhh... big crowd today.” “Where’s the food!?” Someone in the crowd shouted. “We want beer!” “What?” Barnwell asked with a puzzled look. He glanced at someone off stage. “I don’t… I don’t know what they told you, but there’s nothing here. We don’t—“ The crowd broke out into loud boos. Sledge’s grin widened at the openly hostile display. If only he had brought torches and pitchforks they could have a good ole fashioned mob scene on their hands. Well there was always next time for that. Flashbulbs starting going off near the stage, no doubt the Tribunereporter assigned to cover the event. There was still a few more weeks until the primary, but with a misstep like this Dickson would be able to easily close the gap. Jim got up from the park bench and casually walked towards his car while Barnwell tried to get a handle on the rowdy crowd. “Congressman Promises BBQ, Gets Egg on Face,” he told the workers back at Dickson campaign headquarters downtown. “I’ll bet someone twenty bucks that’ll be the headline in the Metro section of tomorrow’s paper.” “I’ll take that bet,” Juanita, one of the office secretaries said. “You got it,” Jim said with a wink. He walked to the cramped workspace that served as an office. Dickson’s fundraising wasn’t the best by a long shot. Most of the money was going to Jim to manage the campaign. Even with his hefty price tag it was far less than his usual amount. With an off-year election coming up he needed something to keep his political claws sharp and this was the challenge. He’d gotten plenty of offers from politicians across the country and even outside of it after managing President Norman’s campaign, but he had turned everyone but Dickson down. He liked being back on the ground after having to manage something as large as a presidential run. Here he could be hands-on. Plus with a schoolboy like Norman he could never pull of a rat-fuck like he had just done. That was the kind of shit Russell Reed liked. The two of them had spent many long nights on the campaign trail talking up tactics only for St. Michael – his and Reed’s private nickname for the president—to shoot them down. There was none of that here. Dickson was hungry and he would do anything to win. In short he was Jim’s kind of candidate. “Mr. Sledge,” Juanita said as she came through the door into his office. “Carla just passed me this message, I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you when you came through the door but, Vice President Reed left you a message while you were out. He needs you to phone him as soon as you can.” Jim grinned again and winked at his secretary. “Speak of the devil. Darling, be a peach and get me a line to D.C.”

Jharkhand, India Gaya-Calcutta Line Tch. Clink. Tch. Clink. Tch. Clink. A team of workers cut away at the undergrowth of vast, untamed Jharkhand territory to clear the way for a railroad line to connect Calcutta on the eastern banks of India to Gaya, and by extension, Sukkur in Pakistan. Their bare backs tense and glisten as they swing their machetes, their axes, their picks and their hammers to the silent beat of a layman’s labor. Behind them a group of men, armed with large-caliber rifles and wearing camouflage slacks and Indian army berets, anxiously scan the tree line for slivers of movement. The Jharkhand is an untamed wilderness, home to the regal and ferocious Bengal tiger and the mountainous and powerful Indian elephant, and the slightest lapse in their vigil could bring the construction of the railroad to a grinding halt. It is midday, in the later part of the summer season. The temperature soars to an excess of one-hundred-and-twenty degrees fahrenheit. The sun’s rays scorch the backs of the laborers who lay blisteringly hot steel track behind the felling team with heavy sledgehammers. A foreman watches over them - an army colonel, six feet tall and dark - he rides a small stream carriage over the freshly laid track at a crawling pace behind the laborers, with a train laden with rations of food and munitions for the work crew. He yawns and looks to his aide: a young boy, maybe nine or ten years old with short, curly, unkempt black hair and relatively light skin; he is shirtless, like the majority of the day-laborers, and his stomach is flat and his arms are skinny, but his legs are muscly and his feet are dark and callused. “Hey, Joseph," the Colonel beckoned to the boy, "Run to the advance crew and tell them to come back. It's lunchtime." The boy smiled and nodded excitedly, "Yessir!" Then he took off, the boy's bare feet smacked against the hard-packed red clay of the Jharkhand. He ducked and weaved between swinging sledgehammers and hoisted steel rails, between the fit young men who moved the rail and the hearty middle aged men who hammered them in place. A voice bellowed, "Timber!" up ahead. A tall tree creaked and groaned as it fell to the ground, kicking up lose dirt with a thud. The cloud of dust clung to Joseph as he leapt over the tree "Hey, kid, watch it!" the lumberjack yelled after him. Joseph turned around and laughed, "Sorry!" He ran through the treeline, his feet smashed twigs and leaves into the soil. Up ahead, the crew was busy hacking away at the underbrush with dull machetes as the soldiers kept a careful eye on the treeline. "Hey! Hey!" Joseph waved at the crew, "Come on! It's time for lunch!" A young man, maybe seventeen years old stood up and slid his machete into a leather sheath on his waist. He held his arm outstretched, held it in the elbow of his other arm, and twisted about his waist. He could feel his spine crack and he groaned as he dropped his arms and rolled his head. The man turned around as the boy Joseph ran up to him. He smiled and ruffled Joseph's dirty black hair. "John! Stop it!" Joseph whined. John laughed and started walking through the forest he had cleared, holding his hands behind his head - Joseph. The more one watched them, the more familial the pair looked. They had the same curly black hair, the same light skin, and the same lithe build (despite John having much more defined arms and abdominals). The pair were unmistakably brothers. John had scars up and down his back "How much longer?" Joseph asked. "What do you mean? You just ran it." "That's not what I meant," Joseph pouted. John laughed, "I know," he sighed, "We probably won't finish before the rainy season." "Oh..." Joseph looked down at his feet, "What will we do then?" "I dunno, take the train back to Calcutta I guess." Joseph nods solemnly, "I hope we finish before then." "Yeah, me too." John looks down at him, pats his back, and gives him a reassuring smile. "It'll be alright." --- Bombay Adm. Banister's Residence "Oh no! Captain! We're sinking! Ah!" Liam Banister laughed as he slowly pulled the toy boat beneath the surface of the water. His daughter, three years old, clapped her hands and giggled, "I sunk daddy's ship!" "You sure did, Christina," he chuckled, "you'd make a fine captain someday." "You think so?" Liam smiled as he lathered up his hands with a flowery-scented shampoo. "The very best," he said as he began to run his hands through her long blonde hair. She smiled wide and they laughed together. "Alright, cover your eyes." Christina pressed her hands tightly over her eyes. Liam scooped up water in his cupped hands and poured it over her head to wash out the lather. "And we're done," he said as he stood up, water dripping from his bathing shorts. He held a hand out to Christina, "Come along then. Let's get you dried off." She nodded and pulled herself up with his help, he grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her over the edge of the bathtub. She picked up two towels from a cabinet as he opened the drain to let the water out. She held one out to him and he smiled, "Thank you, dear." She beamed, "Mhm!" He laughed and wiped her down with the towel before wrapping her up in it, "There you go, now go on and let Anita dress you. I won't be long." She nodded and turned around before scurrying off down the hall. Liam chuckled to himself as she left and strode to the large mirror the hung over his washbasin. He turned the faucet and looked at himself in the mirror. He stroked his graying, curly, captain's beard and ran his hand over his thinning scalp. "Getting old, aren't I?" He laughed to himself and covered up with a white bathrobe. Before making his way to his bedroom and changing into a crimson red smoking jacket, black trousers, and black leather loafers. Before leaving, the old admiral pulled open the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out an ornately carved box. He opened it up and pulled out a smoking pipe, made out of carved ivory and inlaid with gold, as well as a tin of pipe tobacco. He sat on the porch of his sea-side estate, not far from the busy port city of Bombay, rocking in his chair and smoking his pipe as he watched the tide of the Arabian sea go in and out. His little girl sat at his side, on the ground, coloring in a book of blank pages with wax crayons of all hues. He flipped his pipe over and let the ash fall on a plate at his side before laying his head back on the chair and closing his eyes for a well-needed and well-deserved mid-day nap. --- Former Tribal Areas, Pakistan Unknown Village Takka, takka, takka, takka, takka, takka, takka... Bullets whizzed overhead, creating little puffs of dust where they connect with the dirt behind a group of Indian soldiers. They were pinned down by machine gunfire coming from a village on a rocky outcrop. The village was occupied by tribal Pakistani rebels opposed to their ancestral lands coming under Federal rule. A unit of ten Indian soldiers was deployed to the region to put down the resistance. The two sides exchanged volleys of gunfire for several hours, with the Indian soldiers gaining no ground. On a nearby hill, however, an Indian marksman took aim. He lined up his sights with the machine gunner's chest and let out a long, deep breath before firing. Miss. He readjusted and fired. Miss. Again. Bullseye. The machinegunner was sent spiraling backwards and with the suppression lifted, the soldiers rushed the village. Later that evening, around a campfire, the soldiers reveled in their victory and drunk to their health. The deployment's NCO pulled their marksman aside, "That was some fine shooting, Lance Corporal Singh." "It could've been better." "Bah! Don't put yourself down, kid. You're good. I got a telegram from General Jones, he wants to reassign you to the first brigade." "In Delhi?" Singh asked, astonished. "Yep, says he could use a fresh sniper." "Well when do I leave?" he asked, excitedly. "What're anxious to leave us, boy?" the NCO let out a hearty chuckle, Singh laughed awkwardly. "Kidding. You leave tomorrow morning at dawn. A truck will take you straight to the capital. You're going places." "Thank you." Singh smiled and nodded his head. "Dismissed."

Somalia Dusty pastures and whipping and bending sandy roads passed below as the wing of Herons shuddered over the clouds. The dull hum of the engines singing muffled songs in the pilot's ears through their leather flight helmets as they tore along. Somalia roaring at the speed of sound below their chrome wings. The light of the African sun shone bright through the cockpit windows. Glimmering like diamonds from the drops of dew that smacked against the fiberglass with each cloud they tore through. Before long the droplets peeled off, tearing off the glass in the blink of an eye as the roared high above the horn of Africa. “Chin Wu,” the radios cracked, “This is Han Wen. Permission to speak?” “Talk.” Wu replied flatly. To his side Wen flew in his identical silver bullet. The Herons were untested for combat rolls, a first of their generation. He felt confident in them, their regular training runs over the sea ensured he and the rest were already accustomed to this new style of flying. It was something several pilots on base were jealous of. Or were scornful. “If I'm reading my fuel gauges right then it looks like I don't have much left in my tanks. I'm just a little under a half full.” Wen laughed nervously, “I mean, fuck. If this takes too long then we're not making it back to Addis. We're coming down over Mogadishu.” “I always wanted to see Mogadishu.” pipped in another through the radio static. He held a familiar high-pitched voice. “Maybe if you let the Spanish shoot you some you'll get to visit, Song Yu.” Wu cackled back. But jokes aside, he couldn't pretend he wasn't nervous. He shared the same doubt as Wen. “We'll make it.” he said hopefully over the radios, “All we need to do is shake them off long enough for the craft we're protecting to get away. If they can re-route themselves then they should be able to get on ahead long enough for us to refuel and – command willing – meet up with them and see them to their destination.” “Why is it we're obsessed with royals?” Yu demanded, “We kick one off the throne in home to bring him back in, then we make sure every fucking one we're buddies with stays in office. “Last I checked, this isn't how things are supposed to go.” “I'd keep those opinions to yourself.” Wu puffed angrily, “I'm sure there'll be some questions for you and a nice dark chair.” “I understand sir, I'm just saying.” Yu replied apologetically. “Well stop saying. We're coming on the coast.” Wu snapped. He leaned higher into the cabin. The blue glow of the sea shimmered through the distance and the fog of clouds. “Run one last weapons checks. They're live now.” he ordered, turning up the plastic switch guard on the top of the joy stick. He gentle stroked the smooth red button with a gloved finger and took a deep breath. It was a sensitive thing, a mere twitch could fire the cannons mounted under the craft's wing. He reached out to the consoles and flipped up his targeting reticle. With a breath he hoped deeply things were calibrated. “All set, comrade.” his wing men reported. “Destination is the island of Socotra. Eighty degrees from north on our position. Weapons are live, engines still burning hot. Ten minutes ago we received a distress call, I hope you all remember that.” The sound of Wu's wingmen agreeing chimed in. “This is Heron 1 leading in for an attack. On a narrow wedge, heading to destination. “Man Shen, I know you're going to go over these recordings when we get back. So let me add: you still owe me.” Anqing, China “Though the tortoise blessed with magic powers lives long,” Mang Xhu quoted, strolling between the dinner tables. A glass of water raised high in his hands as if toasting the room. His voice boomed and rolled over Cao Cao's lyrics as he walked betwixt the gathering of industrialists. Tables laid flat with white linen, glasses of wine, and plates of pork were the gift of this campaign banquet. “Its days have their allotted span.” Xhu continued. His thinning black hair combed smooth over his head. He was trim in his black suit. A red lapel pinned to the collar. He was confident, but knew Anhui would be a hard sell prefecture. It was agricultural, thus loyal to Auyi. But he had to make the effort. This was his home. “Though winged serpents ride high on the mist, they turn to dust and ashes at last. “An old war-horse may be stabled, yet still it longs to gallop a thousand miles. “And a noble-hearted man though advanced in years never abandons his proud aspirations. “Man' life, whether long or short, depends on man alone.” he smiled, holding out the porcelain cup of water. His eyes shone at the quick and subtle change in lyrics. Dodging the poem's later topic and implications. He gave a strategic pause, offering his people the time to chirp up. And they filled it with light applause. A sprinkle of hands clapped in the wooden hall of Anqing's town hall. The wide windows now situated behind Xhu letting in the bright cool light of the afternoon. The Dabei mountains rose up above the edge of the provincial capital in the distance as the chamber's view peered out over the low roofs of the city. Isolated pillars rose in the distance between them and the green mountains, like the remains of a great ruin the spanned the city. The smoke stacks of factories. “The allotted days of the Europeans are coming to an end.” Xhu said, bowing to the warm applause he got, “China is rising in the east and we will soon bring down upon them the fury of the setting sun. The serpent that long ago divided our nation so it may be devoured by the nymphs is aging, and we will be there to scatter its dust with the fire of revolution! “The Chinese mission is not at an end, and is yet to continue. We have not stepped to climb Zhūmùlǎngmǎ Fēng. We may have put our foot on its heavy face. But we have yet to truly climb to its peak and conquer the challenged before us. We may own its base, having extinguished the European camps at its foot. But even here there are forces that could usurp our rightly given bases and deny us our chance to climb up, and throw boulders down upon them. “There are enemies around every corner. The Revolution in Asia is not yet finished. We have sadly permitted the bourgeoisie Empire of Japan to survive well passed its expiration date. We thought this is mercy, but it is only a prolongation of its suffering. Like an injured boar it breaths weak across the sea. We must ride to it and lay the boar down to sleep for good. And with the final blood drawn from the Empire we will have freed the Japanese, and sought the last revenge for the suffering that have given us! We have not forgotten! “And even so we have Siam, the other aging tiger. Its jungle will its downfall as revolution and liberation sweeps it and deposes its king. And unto Burma we will promise the same before we finish the work we started in India. We have a legacy to live too. One of strength, not of weakness. “Division shall not be abide. The lines in our nation will need to be erased – as too the lines we permit in the International. “And then, what of the old serpent? We shall bring them the gift of worker's revolution. We will steal them. Run the mission of socialism. Achieve true Communism when the west does fall. They already quiver and shake fearfully. Jumping at shadows in the apes from Africa. “Will we forget the Summer Palace?” he asked, weaving between the tables. He stopped and gave pause in the room's nexus. Holding his words and searching expectantly for a sound. A word. Some form of denial. “Have we truly forgot the Summer Palace? A magnificent structure, the peak of the Chinese culture. What was once hoarded, that should have been made the public right of every man, woman, and child in our nation? “Will we abide its loss without revenge? Do we not wish upon the English and the French the same culturcide they have wrought on us? An eye for an eye. As they taught. The suffering of one made up for by equal act. So to will we occupy their lands, their precious colonies, and turn into dust their monuments. To say to them, 'This is what you did to us'. “We should permit weakness to control the nation. We should only permit strength. Given the success of a good administrator. And a masterful tactician. I have fought to lead the Revolution!” Xhu boasted, “I was there, leading the heroes who liberated the nation once more, and sewed multiple parts into one body! “What can Auyi say to this?” he asked, “Hardly naught. His position his short. I was long. He is a young upstart and a rebel. So why do we vote for him? “Comrades and brothers in shared blood. I am the one who is ready.” Intelligence Bureau, Beijing “What's this, all right here?” an agent asked, raising a hand up to the blown up aerial photograph. The back lighting glowed through the photo paper, giving the black-and-white patchwork of shapes a ghostly illumination. “It looks sort of like a military compound.” replied another, walking up alongside his partner. He squinted his eyes at the blotchy details. All along the sides ran a series of similar pictures. The two looked up and down the series of images. “Where did the notes say this base was again?” the agent asked. “On the southern edge of the Atlas range. GHH-04 puts the approximate location at about 19 degrees north and 7 west.” another said from the back of the room. Yan Sing craned is head to the side. His body tingled with the sensation of curiosity as he took a draw from his cigarette. This was their second batch, he'd come down when someone said they found chemical trucks. And now he stood again in the dark room looking at field intelligence laid out on sheets of plastic paper. “Commander Sing, what's your thoughts?” the agents asked. Their commander didn't respond. He scanned along the successive series of photographs with a distant stare in his eyes. “Why circle about a rock in the desert?” he asked suddenly. “Are they hiding weapons under that mesa?” an underling asked. “Weapons. Probably.” Sing growled, walking up to the line. He stopped short of one, looking into the granular splotchiness of an exploded photo. “Comrades, what do you transport in tanker trucks?” he asked. “Chemical components, sir.” one replied. “And what operation needs to be guarded by the military, serviced for the air-force, most likely?” “Chemical weapons?” “And what's the chemical weapons that Spain has?” “VX, comrade.” “Ship this to the rest of the branches. We're holding onto this information. File a request to put this site under monitoring. I want to know as much of its schedule as possible. Rotate planes on it. If they can, I want an ID on everything that goes in and out.” Urumqi, Xinjiang The train had pulled into the station late in the afternoon. A clear sky highlighted the capital of China's western fringe. It was a city tucked on the edge of the desert. Resting between two mountain tops in a valley it called its own. As the train swept north from the dry dustiness of the desert the first thing its passengers had seen on its approach was not a class and steel maze, rising like a ghost in the haziness of the horizon as they soared over rocky hills and swept over the cracked Earth on a June day. Marking where the city stood they saw the mountains, the green shield, the ice caps just beginning to melt. As they neared the city the Taklamakan cleared to pastoral green fields, feed from the Bogda Shan mountains that marked the city. As they drew in closer the much drier and cracked counter part to the Bogda Shan rose in the horizon as the first hints of Urumqi's administrative quarters poked out of the horizon. The Tian Shan were much like a sharp and jaunting spine of rock than the greener Bogda range. The city itself was a time capsule. Entering it Auyi and his family felt themselves going back through time. The old mud and stone structures of the desert felt and looked more akin to a passage torn from medieval Persian stories, inter-spaced with the sun-baked Chinese relics of the past century than it was a city of modern value. At times as they passed the Uighur neighborhoods and in the shadows of towering minarets could they see the distinctive glass and cement industrialism of Chinese bureaucracy in the city's core. Its own administration and that of the province as a whole, an egg of dark glass in a nest of beige and brown stone, white plaster, and blue ceramic glittering like sapphire gems from mosque domes and park gazebo roofs. Still despite its alien fantasy Auyi saw what he considered a hint of home in its streets as the train crawled to the station. Whipping over crossing guards he caught the passing glimpses of trucks and wagons. Though caked in dust they were all the same laden with the produce of the region's efforts. Cages of chickens, bales of cotton, and bushels of wheat packed in tight and heavy in the beds as farmers made their way in to sell the excess of their labor. The train station was – besides the distant administrative buildings – the city's most modern piece of infrastructure, though out of place. Likely built in the 30's, the building felt and sounded like something out of Russia or Europe. Its towering cathedral ceiling was a patchwork of yellowing, sun-stained glass set in iron lattices. Solid red-brick walls enclosed the platform and offices from the outside streets and contained the piped audio of train arrivals and announcements in both Chinese and Uighur. Security had cleared for them a way through, allowing the minister to be to his designated cab on the street. But not without the handshaking and waves expected from a candidate for public office. “You're going to be meeting with Sabit Afdeer.” Shanxi Wu dictated as soon as they got in their cab, “He's the leader of the local Uyghur council representing both them and the Hui groups in the north. He's also a prominent figure down south, namely he's a congressman from Kashgar.” “So what's he doing up north then?” Auyi asked. “Trying to keep things together.” Bathukhan replied in a slow draw as he took a seat alongside Auyi. The doors shut as Bao Yu and Jie squeezed into the very back of the government coach. “Hui and Uyghur both have been strenuously affected by the religion laws of the state and how often they flip-flop. For us in the East it's hardly an issue, faith – or lack there of – is pretty homogeneous and most districts haven't had a severe problem with it. There's no argument when what the people do mostly practice is sanctioned by Beijing.” “I understand that much.” Auyi agreed, “So the law hasn't been very stable here then?” “As minister of people's affairs, you obviously don't tune into much news.” Bathukhan laughed. He waved his hand dismissively in the air. He disregarded the innocent slip. “It's stabilized in the past few years but some members of the community have become upset that the Han side of the local government thinks that they can shut down Mosques. The situation became tentative almost several years ago when most of the Hui moved west out here and skewed the religious demographic towards Islam. Last update to the religion law said that Muslims were as native to China as Daoists, at least out here. Sabit Afdeer negotiated the peace between the Muslims and Urumqi. Uyghur and Hui make up just over half of Xinjiang now, we don't need violence.” “I imagine he has a lot of clout then.” “Incredible. He doesn't need to be in Kashgar to be seen as a hero. He's almost to them as Hou is to everyone else.” Bathukhan nodded, giving a breath of subdued praise. The chauffeur pulled them out into the street and into the veins of the lost city. “Sabit will treat us to a private dinner at his residence.” Wu recited from his notes as they wound into the streets, “Last I got in touch with his people I was told we'd get a half an hour alone. Local-level news outlets will be present however for a brief question and answer with Sabit. Afterwards he'll introduce us to the informal Xinjiang Uyghur council before we eat.” “Excellent.” nodded Auyi. He glanced back at his son and asked: “Bathukhan, does he have any children?” “Sabit is about as old as I am. He's got grand children. But none of them will be present.” he droned. “Not last I checked when I heard you were going.” Auyi bit his lip and nodded. “Damn.” he muttered in a subdued whisper. Jie however didn't seem to notice as he watched the passing city through the rear window. Too hypnotized by the foreign landscape to care. His mother gently stroked his back, smiling gently as they went. “Should we go over possible questions, or do you think you can do it ad hoc?” queried Wu. “I think I'll ad hoc it, thank you.” Auyi nodded, watching the city. “Beautiful place, shame I never came this far west until now.” he said softly, watching the front entrance of a mosque as they passed. ------------- “Qarshi alimiz!” the old man boomed as he opened the door. Round and jovial, he almost bounded along the floor as he invited his guests in, “Minister Auyi, it's a pleasure to meet you for once.” he said, turning to the minister as he entered. Sabit Afdeer was by no means a shrunken man in his age. His presence was inspiring as he stood over the minister from the east. His cheeks flush with rose red as he smiled behind a thick wiry beard, specked with cream. “I hope you don't mind I don't extend the proper greeting,” he apologized heartily, his voice as big as he was a man, “But I couldn't help to indulge myself in left over pilaf so I'm afraid I know I got some in my beard. “Come, come. Sit down please. Before the journalists arrive.” “Thank you.” Auyi smiled. He felt nervous around the man. For being an old horse of a figure his energy was like that of an unstrung child. His sagging wrinkles and thick sun-cooked leathery face did little to hold back what was his age. The entire image of him as he saw him made him mildly uncomfortable. For years he had become accustomed to the slow and calculated age of the normal politics in Beijing, where even the young bloods in politics had a timely speed. Almost meditative in their ways. But here he now was, in the political home of a figure who by all means looks to have decided everything so far behind the spring that should be coiled was sprung and free. “I'm afraid we don't have much in the ways of introductions to do.” he said, walking around his living room. Or more pacing as he worked between the chairs and tables. Arranging and re-arranging them. “I had to do most of the work myself. I frankly didn't feel my staff could get it right.” he apologized, showing Zhang Auyi a thick red leather arm chair. An identical stood next to it. “I can't help but feel that's not the only reason.” he smirked, amused at the intensity of the old Uyghur. He was by no means either a figure who looked like he was born in China. He was tall, his Asian features softened by a certain Caucasian nature. His nose wide and bulbous, rising out from his face and pitted. He like wise could look in his glowing blue eyes and confuse him easily enough for being Russian. His long wiry hair – now white – could have once probably been a sandy shade of blonde. He looked over at the Minister with a polite smile as he brushed the cushions of a couch off to the side for his wife and son. Bathukhan stood in the corner watching with Wu. “Quite right.” he said, “But tell me, Auyi. When you're not playing the Beijing game, what do you do? “Oh, and Wu. Did you want to take up my tea offer?” he asked suddenly. “I'm fine.” Wu replied from his corner. “Then sit down. You too Bathukhan, I know I watch you lurking the edge of the chamber a lot. But this is a home, not the Congressional Hall.” the Mongolian bowed his head and laughed, nodding agreeingly to Sabit. “I've picked up Photography, towards the end of the Revolution.” he said. “You and I, we seem similar then.” Sabit said. His pace seemed to slow, as if getting over the initial rush of having visitors. “I painted, for a while. Was never very good, but I insisted with people. “Like a photographer I found, I wanted to find the best angle for my subjects.” he stepped back, gliding to the far end of the room, “And I think our vulture friends will have the good one.” “So that's why you're doing this alone?” he asked. “Indeed. Back in the forties I met a photographer from Russia who had been traveling central Asia. I was a young man then, but when I saw his magic box I had to stop him and ask. I followed him around Kashgar for the week, playing assistant. He had energy, like myself. Taught me a bit about light on his stay. I had the impression he was judging me. Trying to find if I could be his protege. “In the end, comrade. I had my own things in Xinjiang. For the growing political storm. I knew I couldn't go to Moscow with him to study. But I did take what lessons he had at heart, and I observed. “And lately now, even with my hobbies set far aside for my obligations and duties as a leader among my people I don't forget. I like to doctor my own settings.” “That sounds fascinating.” Auyi complimented, “I for one am more a landscape man.” “A man for the wider image then.” Sabit smiled, taking his own seat in an identical red chair next to Auyi. “The journalists should be here in five minutes. I'm distressed – if not surprised – you're late. With any luck they will be too. But necessary evils, if I must comment. Shall we go over anything first?”

Addis Ababa "There's war in them waters" the old man crowed. He blinked his eyes too much. "Gawdamn war in those waters"

A letter to Germany "To whom it many concern, Serbia has no plans to move into Croatia. We are not so full of ourselves as to believe we can take on Germany and Croatia even with Spanish Support and Weapons. Serbia's ascension to the Iberian League was because for a while now we have needed a great power backer, and Spain has provided that to us. I can make no guarantees that Serbia shall not declare war on any other Balkan nations, however Croatia will be left alone. I request that this letter also be sent to Croatia, so they may be aware that they have no cause for alarm. Neven Dragan, Leader of Serbia."

Atlas Mountains, Spanish Morocco

Julio Zuraban pinned the wriggling goat down against the sand, pressing its hind hooves down with his knees, binding the front two hooves in his left hand, and holding the head down flat against the ground by the stubby little horns. The goat groaned in protest, struggling in vain against Julio's weight. The senator-in-exile glanced down upon the animal beneath him, and his eyes met with the upward-facing eye of the goat. The rectangular pupil darted wildly about before locking with those of Julio's, and he could feel the animal relaxing beneath him.

"Sssssh. It's alright," Julio lied. A few strides away, one of the Tuareg playing host to the marooned Spaniards filed the blade of a crude dagger down against a whetstone. The abrasive sound of steel slipping past stone served as a grim reminder of what was to soon transpire.

The leathery-skinned Bedouin gingerly tested the blade against his fingertips and, upon finding it sufficiently sharp, stooped down over the goat's head with the knife in hand. Julio maintained eye contact with the beast beneath him until the moment of slaughter had arrived. With a wincing grimace, Julio averted his gaze to the canyon walls behind him and allowed the Tuareg butcher to do his work. A soft half-bleat escaped the animal's throat before the knife severed it. The goat gave a series of rapid twitches for a few seconds longer and quickly fell completely limp. With his assistance no longer necessary, Julio returned to his feet and stepped away to give the Bedouin sufficient space to butcher the goat.

"Have you never seen a life taken before?" Dejene, the foreign-born African who spoke Spanish, approached Julio and watched as the Tuareg unceremoniously went about skinning the goat, the sand under his knees soaked in bright red blood.

"I have," Julio affirmed, recalling a firefight he had witnessed in southwestern Armenia where had witnessed a sniper strike two Ottoman conscripts dead. "I've seen men shot. But I didn't have anything to do with them in those cases - they would have died had I been there or not. But there was something about the goat..."

"Remorse." Dejene concluded. "You assisted in the slaughter."

"That's it. I feel guilty... I suppose I am guilty."

"You should feel no guilt," Dejene coldly offered. It was the goat or you."

"How do you suppose that to be?"

"See it in this way: if the goat did not die, it would be you and your countrymen here that must die. The clan can scarcely feed themselves on their own. Your arrival, along with the others that came down in that airplane, has complicated the matter. There is simply not enough food to go around. If these goats are not culled, then you and your countrymen must starve. It is as simple as that: it was the goat or you."

"I see," Julio nodded, understanding but still plainly dejected.

"It was merely a goat, but it's no different than killing a man. I have killed many men during my life, I do not feel remorse for a single one. Because each one of those men - without a single exception - meant immediate harm to myself or people dear to me. I do not regret a single bullet. So long as you only take a life in defense of yourself and yours, that you lead your life in such a way that more good than bad comes of your time on this world... you should never feel the slightest twinge of remorse for a life taken."

"Thank you for your thoughtful words. I hope I should never need to consider your advice, but I appreciate it nonetheless."

"I'm afraid this won't be the last time you are confronted with the need to take a life."

"What do you mean by that?" Julio asked, confusion and anxiety creeping across his face.

"What do you think I mean?" An expectant Dejene asked. "Did you expect these men to go to such great pains to feed and maintain you and your countrymen without repayment? We scarcely need a hundred Spaniards to carry water and help butcher goats. But we are in dire need of men who can carry a rifle, who know the organization and language of our enemy- men who will join us and ride out against the occupiers of this land."

"Most of us have never held a gun in our lives." Julio complained. "We don't know anything about that facility. We know absolutely nothing about the organization of the Spanish military. So we will be of no help in fighting the military. If you send us against them, it will be a slaughter. Where exactly does sending untrained civilians against the regular Spanish army fall in that philosophy of yours?"

"This is not the way we wanted this to happen, Zuraban." Dejene snarled. "The Spanish gunships are combing the region with diligence. Shooting that plane down disturbed them far more than we could have ever anticipated. It is only a matter of time now before the Spanish find this place and destroy us before we can strike. We must carry out our attack against the Mountain - La Cabeza - at once. I had wanted to give your people some training in handling weapons but there is simply no time left. I will save the people they've taken to that place, and if I must trade their freedom for the lives of a handful of Spaniards then it's a fair trade by my reckoning."

Julio's face drained of its color, and the shady canyon gully began to spin dizzily about him. Julio had seen battle firsthand more than once, but he had never fought himself. Save for a few tips he had gathered in passing whilst covering the last war in Armenia, Julio had no knowledge of conducting warfare. Joaquin - the policeman from Madrid - at least he had some experience handling a sidearm, but as far as Julio knew, none of his fellow prisoners had any experience in combat. These were hardly ideal circumstances for assaulting a heavily fortified outpost guarded by the Spanish military.

"Tonight, Graciela, myself, and the Amghar will discuss our aims. Give yourself plenty of rest today; in the coming days you and your countrymen must be prepared to fight if need be."

Straits of Mandeb

They flew high and slow, rumbling angrily through the nebula of clouds generated by the monsoon squall. A wing of Gargola bombers eight strong merged together into a long, wavering line on the southern end of the anvilhead clouds growing above the southern Red Sea. And they were not alone; a dozen propeller-bound Halcon fighters bobbed and skirted alongside the monstrous bombers The higher-pitched drone of the high performance engines that powered their nose propellers sang in alto above the baritone hum of the Gargola engine pods.

They had come from airfields in the east of Egypt - Ismailia, Suez, and a stretch of usable tarmac at the demolished airport at Port Said. From the commandeered airfields, the Spanish squadrons leapfrogged from the aircraft carrier and the flagship of their armada: La Ira de Dios; the bombers had sufficient fuel to cross the length of the Red Sea for the first bombing campaigns against the Ethiopian homeland. But those first strikes were now on hold as a new target for the Fuerza Aerea had been discovered. A reconnaissance flight carried out by a blisteringly-fast Fantasma had sighted the anemic remnants of the Ethiopian Navy. And from the plexiglass enclosed noses of the Gargolas, the pilots could see them now as well.

Where the Red Sea funneled into a narrow channel - the Bab El Mandeb - a string of miniscule gray dots formed a diffuse line from the Ethiopian coast to a miniscule island just off the Yemeni side of the straits. The last Ethiopian fleet, the survivors of two invasions from across the Red Sea, formed a defensive line between the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden. The Ethiopian line would deny the Spanish Armada the ability to land its army at Jibouti, or it would perish in the attempt.

The Spanish squadrons would see that they perished.

((Suggested listening))

Five of the Halcones banked out of the attack squadron and plummeted down toward the Earth, and another three split off and followed in behind them, diving down at dizzying speed to the Ethiopian fleet. The vast distance between the Red Sea and the planes was closed rapidly, at which point the fighters leveled out only a few hundred feet above the whitecaps of the choppy waters below. At this altitude, the Ethiopian warships loomed on the horizon and the beginnings of exhaust trails billowed out from their smokestacks as their engines throttled up to maneuver against the airborne attackers.

The Halcones punched the throttle in turn, roaring above the waves and closing in on their prey in two loose waves. Tracers shot from the decks of the Ethiopian vessels in sweeping arcs at the approaching fighters as the sailors opened up with their anti-air guns. The Halcones drew lower still - only a few dozen feet above the churning sea, an altitude so low that deck-mounted guns would have difficulty aiming at the incoming planes. The fighters split apart from their formation, steering toward the largest and sturdiest vessels of the Ethiopian flotilla. Within two kilometers, the air around the Halcones periodically burst into hot shrapnel and smoke as the African flak guns opened up. Even so, the Spanish planes were not deterred. When the Ethiopian vessels before them grew into mountains of steel, the Halcones released their weapons upon the Ethiopian fleet: torpedoes.

Heavy tubes of black metal tumbled off the wings of the fighters and plunged into the water, generating geysers of frothy seawater that splashed against the wings of the fighters as the swooped up to climb away. Bubbly contrails of ghostly white snaked ominously under the waves toward the Ethiopian vessels. No sooner than the torpedoes were away, the deck guns fired upon the underwater serpents loosed upon them by the Spanish. With the Ethiopians' attention diverted, the fighters shot skyward over the decks and smokestacks of the fleet - at this proximity they were mostly safe from flak shrapnel. Mostly.

The sailors aboard the Kebra Negast scored a lucky shot indeed with the flak cannon. Their gun launched an explosive shell into the very heart of a passing Halcon fighter as it climbed away from its torpedo run. The shell remained lodged within the fighter's fuselage for a few brief seconds before exploding. The Halcon emerged from the ensuing fireball as a rain of smoldering hunks that plummeted down into the waves. The pilot was soon avenged for the fiery death that had befallen him. The torpedoes he had launched against the cruiser had found their mark beneath the hull of the vessel and exploded deep underneath her bow and, moments later, her midsection. The sea around her hull instantly boiled and plumes of ejected steam and water shot skyward about the hull. The surviving pilots watched with satisfaction as the Kebra Negast's back broke under the strain and the ship's very hull bowed inward and immediately inundated.

The first wave of torpedoes had burst beneath several of the larger Ethiopian vessels, exacting considerable damage against them all and mortally wounding two. The three planes in the second wave concentrated their torpedoes on the unscathed destroyer Ras Makonnen and the Gambela. Four torpedoes rocked the Ras Makonnen, completely splitting the vessel evenly down the middle, but not before her anti-air guns shot down one of the planes responsible for her demise. The shot plane lost control on its escape ascent and cartwheeled down into the waves. With their torpedoes spent, the remaining fighters circled about amongst a barrage of anti-air shells and flak bursts, and then turned about to face the fleet with their wing-mounted machine guns. The Halcones bobbed and weaved through the stream of metal and shrapnel racing toward them before raking the larger vessels with long pulses of gunfire. The smaller torpedo boats - too small and nimble to waste torpedoes on - were easy targets for swooping gun strafes. Streams of tracers riddled the Ethiopian patrol boats, sometimes setting them ablaze or even striking the high-explosive torpedoes and causing them to explode. Amongst the rising plumes of diesel-fueled smoke, the anti-air shells, and the masts of moribund Ethiopian warships, the Halcones darted, strafed, and swooped with the maneuverability of swallows.

Even so, the Ethiopians presented a vicious fight. Even as their vessels listed and sank into the churning waves, the Ethiopian guns continued firing. A passing Halcon took a shell to the belly, permitting a stream of fuel to pour out vigorously into the air. The Ethiopians fought to keep their feet planted against the decks as the whitecaps crested above the hull, but they paid no mind; revenge was all they considered as they kept the guns trained on the swooping airplanes. A Halcon took a flak shell to the nose, showering the plane in shrapnel. The sputtering plane flew through the puff of black smoke with a shattered windshield and then careened into the sea with a mighty splash.

And then a new sound joined the cacaphony of battle: an angry piercing whistle. It grew in pitch and intensity until it reached its climax in a concussive blast that thundered across the sea, and then another, and then another five. The Gambela was now totally ablaze, her forecastle a smoldering wreck. The bombers had joined the battle at last.

Bombs whistled angrily from the sky, dozens of them and continuing to fall by the second. Some splashed down into the water, bursting just under the surface to generate colossal columns of frothy water. Others found their mark on the decks of the Ethiopian warships, burst with tremendous force. A separate string of bombs rained down upon the Adwa and the surrounding waters. Sailors lept from the doomed ship to escape the fires and suffocating smoke.

Torpedo boats and patrol cutters swerved this way and that, breaking formation to avoid being crushed by a capsizing cruiser or destroyer. Those smaller ships with enough integrity to sail broke for the African shores at full speed. They would fall back to Jibouti with the aim to repel a landing there in whatever capacity they could, with air support perhaps. But even if the Spanish planes could be repelled, the Ethiopian fleet was effectively destroyed. A ragtag smattering of cutters and torpedo boats would offer no resistance to the full might of the Armada that would be upon these waters in a matter of hours. There was no reason to stand and fight, and so the remaining ships scattered for the coast.

Satisfied with the destruction they had wrought and their fuel allowance all but exhausted, the Spanish fighters backed off and turned back to refuel on the deck of La Ira de Dios some two hundred miles to the North. And even though there were a few planes with plenty of fuel to hunt down the routing Ethiopian boats, they were allowed to escape nonetheless. They would present no danger to Admiral Santin's fleet, but instead return to their superiors. Those survivors would bring news to the Ethiopian people that the hurdles to the Spanish advance had been brushed aside.

They would bear that worst of news: that the stopgap defenses were all exhausted; the battles that would decide the fate of the Pan-African Empire, perhaps the fate of the world as a whole, would be fought in ancient Ethiopia.

Whatever the outcome of that struggle, the Blood of Solomon would be spilled across the last bastion of free Africans.

Outskirts of Mexico City, Mexico Creeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaak...creeeaaak. Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaak...creeeaaak. Back...and forth. Back...and forth. The rocking of the porch chair was almost like a heartbeat, in a way: a constant pulse that could keep an aged mind going on, if only for so long. And the mind occupying the chair at that moment was one that desperately needed rest. President Romano Felipe Mondragon breathed calmly as the seat moved back...and forth. Back...and forth. He was tired of it all. He was tired of the political lifestyle; tired of the incompetent legislators; tired of the spineless peers of his party; and, most of all, tired of the damn comunistas. Back...and forth. Back...and forth. The Institucionals had been losing their support. He had known this from the moment he had entered politics in his younger years; the people of Mexico could no longer see that powerful spark of passion that had driven the party in the first years it dominated the government. It had begun to falter, wilt in its own bureaucratic inefficiency. Back then, he had believed, though a few party members were beginning to see the cracks in the Partido's federal dominion. But even he had come to realize the faults rupturing throughout their government, if only at a time too late to do anything about it. As incompetence arrived with the newer members of his party, so too came political stagnation and a large decline in popular support. It seemed that the only thing that saved them from a complete loss of power was the lack of any other political party to oppose them; the Partido Revolucionario Institucional was simply a giant that could not be toppled. Until the Nuevo Partido Comunista de Mexico had grown just as huge. Back...and forth. Back...and forth. Those China-loving diablos had grown overnight, it seemed. The merger of several leftist organizations and minor parties had resulted in the birth of an enemy that could actually face down the Institucionals. And for the record, they did manage to present their ideals and arguments well enough to the people that they actually liked them. They actually liked them! The very thought that a nation of the new world would be so open to leftist ideology...it both baffled and enraged the President. With all of the damn comunistas surrounding him, he might as well be in Vietnam! Or hell, maybe even Siberia! It disgusted him. And yet, the tide of the peoples' hearts turned in the favour of his enemies. He and his party had to act fast if they were to keep their power. Back...and forth. Yet his most loyal generals were aging, and the most cunning and capable were in turn sympathetic to the cause of the Nuevo Comunistas. This meant a crackdown or an assassination was impossible, lest he wish to have the most dangerous dogs in the pack turn against their masters. And it was then that his peers suggested a compromise. A compromise! To actually work with the leftist pigs would be a betrayal of their party, he had argued. Yet they, in turn, pointed out that the party did not have much time left, and that they had to buy as much time as possible; a compromise was the only way to assure the continued survival of the Institucionals' dominion. And he had agreed. Back.... But even now, his peers showed their true idiocy; they were willing to give in to the demands of the comunistas, but couldn't even agree on what legislation would best suit them, let alone actually pass said legislation. It had to be "just right": not too helpful to the leftist cause, not too damning to the Institucional way-of-life. In the end, they barely made any changes; the only big change that they could make a claim to was after a night of heated debate, in which the exhausted morning afterwards gave way to an application to join the China-led Third International. That had been a controversial move between the party members, let alone the entire country. Yet still, the Nuevo Comunistas were pleased, and so was their ever-growing base of support. ...and forth. Still, it had not been enough. His party had been too slow, too inefficient; now they had faced the most recent elections, a vast battle that pitted the tried-and-true Institucionals against the rising Nuevo Comunistas. The votes were cast, and the results came in. Back.... The Institucionals had lost. But they didn't just lose some; they lost all. Only three of the one-hundred and twenty-eight seats of the Senate remained in their hands, and only five out of five-hundred of his peers in the Chamber of Deputies could say the same about their position. ...and forth. And just whom had taken the title of Presidency? Back.... It was the head of the Nuevo Comunistas himself, Hernando Estevez. ...he stopped rocking. Leaning forward to put his head in his hands, Mondragon took a deep breath. Using his thumbs to massage his temples, he tried to stop thinking of that diablo, that monstruo that had taken HIS office. Such a disgrace! Such a shame! To think that he had failed to stop a comunista from taking office--much less a comunista from that damned party! The news had come a few weeks ago--and now, it was now approaching the time of inauguration. The President, after learning of the triumph of the Nuevo Comunista did not wish to be around his office anymore; he'd had enough of the damn place, especially now after this great defeat of his. And besides, there really wasn't much to do as the President of Mexico, anyways. Maybe he would enjoy his retirement out here, near the deserts of Central America; maybe, just maybe, the life he'd held before would not encroach on the life he would lead soon afterwards. Yet evidently, that peaceful time in retirement would have to wait, for the sound of a car's engine in the distance served to both aggravate him and his headache. He groaned, and looked up to see a far-off black car, racing towards his house amongst the desert. It was a government car, of course; he was unable to read the license plate, but could recognize the paint scheme and the model anywhere. He had grown so sick of those blasted vehicles; they were never comfortable, and almost always broke down when you needed them the most. Go figure for a country like this. Eventually, the car came to a slow halt as it reached the house. Bursting out from the side of the car was his assistant back at the office, Manuel Choras. Short and fat was the man; but looming and quick was he in debate. Honestly, if it weren't for his appearance, he would be the President right now, not Mondragon. "Romano! Romano, you must return at once!" demanded Choras, the thin mustache lining his upper lip twitching in anxiety. "I told you, Señor Choras, I am not to be disturbed out here! I will have nothing to do with a government that failed to the comunistas!" snapped Mondragon. On any other day, he would have taken the time to listen to his assistant. Choras was, after all, not a politician one could simply ignore, if not for the grotesque appearance on the surface. "You do not understand, Romano! A dire crisis is approaching our nation--" began the assistant. "As I have heard several times in the past ten or so years," the President cut him off. "I am already aware that the damn comunistas are going to be in power. That is a crisis I cannot prevent anymore than I already have." "You will allow me to finish!" Choras barked. A typical move by the man; it seemed even in the last days of his job, Choras would not stop being his own impatient self. Mondragon opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The exhaustion, defeat, and humiliation of the past month had been too much to handle--and his silence now was all he had to show for it. Choras then continued, "As I said: a crisis is on the way, Romano. Disaster shall strike our country after the inauguration, I promise you this! Word has spread of the Nuevo Comunista plans for their first month in office. Romano, I tell you this in great horror, as any of us Institucionals should speak of it: Estevez and his cronies are plotting something terrible." "And what, pray tell, would that be?" said Mondragon. A beat, and then: "Romano, they are going to write a new constitution!" Another beat--this time, considerably longer. For the first time since the election results were told to him, Mondragon's face was an almost blank mix of shock and surprise. Had he heard that right? A new constitution? "I know you do not believe me," began Choras once again, as if he could sense the disbelief in his President's mind. "In preparation for that, I have brought you a copy--yes, a copy!--of their first draft of the blasphemous thing." The assistant then fumbled around in his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper--one that had been crumpled up and torn in what was likely a fit of frustration--and handed it to the tired President. Mondragon gazed upon it. Choras was actually serious about this! And so were the damn comunistas! But that was not the end of it. A quick scan of the contents revealed the nature of this new constitution: if passed, it would cement the power of the Nuevo Comunistas as a part of the government itself! The creation of an apparent "vanguard party"...not only that, but elections would change drastically. Parties would be permitted, but none would be allowed to endorse a candidate with money or political ability; instead, candidates for offices would have to run on their own merits. Even the government-integrated Nuevo Partido Comunista would not be permitted to provide aid in elections. There was more still: an entire conversion of the economic backbone for Mexico would occur. The country would shift rapidly from a market economy to a system of centralized planning! He really was in Siberia, after all! "Evidently, they wished to let the people see for themselves the plans of their leaders, let the people decide on what was best for the new constitution, let the people hold open debates and a nation-wide vote on any changes," Choras rambled. Each time he said the word "people", it was as if he had to vomit. Another reason why Mondragon was the President, and not him. In any case, this was all too big a matter for Mondragon to handle right now. He had come out here to find peace, yet here came his political life, bringing more and more stress upon him. He just couldn't handle it--not now, not ever. He took a deep breath, and then spoke: "Choras. I want you to turn around, get back in your car, and leave. Do not come back here. Ever." "But--" protested the fat assistant. "Choras!" Mondragon roared. "For God-knows-how-long, I have run this country in administration after administration. I have overseen disaster after disaster, and have only been faced with one crisis--the rise of the comunistas--that I could not beat. Yet here you stand now, demanding I face another undefeatable danger to our country! Do you not realize that we are done?! Our time has passed, Choras! And there is nothing we can do to fight what is to come!" Choras, surprisingly, was silent. His face had grown extremely red to match the contorted grimace that had etched itself as Mondragon spoke, but no words spilled out. Mondragon knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here, and thus continued: "If you truly wish to survive the red tide, then do as I do: flee. Go to your homes, rest, live the rest of your life away from the miserable overbearings of politics. If the constitution fails, it fails; if it creates a revolution, it creates a revolution; but do not try to stop it, for in the twilight of this administration, we can do nothing. So do not even try to convince me otherwise, for I have seen that truth. You would be wise to look at the situation in a similar fashion." And with that, he stood up, turned around, and walked back into his home, leaving Choras to grumble to himself in the hot desert sun. Veracruz, Mexico "And you are confident that you should just let them vote on it?" came a voice out of the room of Senator-elects. Estevez, the only non-Senator-electee in the room, did not answer. It was not that he was incapable of answering a question he felt so strongly about; rather, it was instead a silence born from distraction, which in turn was born from the lovely sight of the beachfront outside on an afternoon. "Estevez!" came the same voice. He closed his eyes, sighed, and turned to face the source of that voice. It was Adriano Felipez, one of the many other Nuevo Comunistas elected to the government. He was a man in his mid-sixties that had long been campaigning for leftist activity in a nation dominated by a rotting carcass of a political party. Many would suggest showing respect to an old man like him; but considering the lack of success Felipez had achieved on his own, Estevez knew better. "Yes, I am sure of my decision," he replied calmly. "But how do you know we should have even told them of our plans in the first place? For God's sake, the Institucionals could be using our ideas to plot against us right as we speak!" the old man rambled. "Felipez, do you trust in the people?" Estevez asked, turning once more back to the window facing the golden shores and the open bay. "Of course I do!" retorted Felipez, in a somewhat offended tone. "But I will never trust the Institucionals!" "You are right not to do so," agreed Estevez. "Yet you overestimate them. They are a dying breed, and they have been dying since the day their first administration ended. They do not control the military, or at least the smart part of it that know's how to actually wage a battle; they do not control themselves, for they have been reduced to a bunch of babbling idiots who couldn't agree on the colour of the sky if money was involved." He turned back to the Senator-elect. "They are finished. They are of no concern to us." "And what of those supporting us that may find this move, erm, extreme?" said Carlos Diamentas, a Senator-elect from the Pacific coast. "Do you not remember their reaction to the country's alignment with the Third International?" "Ah, but remember," countered the President-elect, "it was not our party that made such a decision, though it is certainly something we might have pursued in due time. No, it was the Institucionals that committed that action; we have made it very clear that it was an action that the people had no say in when it happened. And now, we present something just as big and life-changing as a new constitution, but in this instance there are two major differences: "First, we have presented them a say in the development of the constitution. It is up to them if any changes should be made--or hell, if it gets passed at all!--and that is something that they were not presented in the days of the Institucionals. And, concerning the old party, the second difference is that this new constitution provides an escape from that long-standing group of bureaucrats. The denial of private endorsement in elections will instead create an opening for all manner of Mexicans--yes, even the simplest of rural farmers--to become a part of a great Vanguardia Partido." He smiled at the thought. He had worked a long time for that idea to become a reality; and soon, on the day after his inauguration, it would be in the hands of the people. "I promise you, it is a difference in life the people have long sought after. If we are ever to live up to the idea that there should be a vanguard party at all, then it is up to us to show them the way to a leftist future." He turned once again to the window, and gazed out at the crowds of people surrounding the beach's shores, where the line between land and sea was eternally shifting thanks to tidal forces. Once again, he became lost in the majesty of the body of water beyond his homeland, shutting out any more complaints from the Senator-elects behind him. In truth, he knew that there would be some opposition to the new constitution. Though they held a large amount of support across the country, they did not hold all of it. Yet he was not convinced that there would be any major uprisings; after all, only about 10 of the Institucionals remained in their positions out of hundreds. Such a dramatic decrease in support meant that there would not be anything to worry about. Erm...well...that was not entirely true. Though Estevez trusted in the people, he did not hold the rest of the world in the same regard. There were many imperialist countries still out there that might seek to crush such a popular movement in the West, with Spain no doubt at the forefront--at least, as soon as they finished their conquest of Ethiopia. Such a vile thing it was, the Spanish-Ethiopian War; as soon as he had the opportunity, he would make certain that Mexico would contribute to the defense of Ethiopia in some fashion...so long as his comrades felt the same way. Alongside those, there were many others that would seek to put their own interests, positive or negative, in the place of Mexico's, namely China and the rest of the ComIntern. In time, he feared the alliance within the Third International may place Mexico in an...unfavourable position beneath the rest of the Third International member states. Still, these were things that would require constant vigilance--something he hoped he would have during his term. Another thing to note would be the upcoming inaugural address that he was set to deliver. It would be through there that he would ultimately speak about the topics of the new constitution and the government and economy that said constitution would implement. It would be through there that he would ultimately sway the vote in favour of acceptance of the constitution. And it would be through there that he would ultimately achieve victory for the Mexican people. Alas, he could only hope.

Oupost 5, Northland 21:07 "What are yer doing ya lazy cunt?" The moon was high in the sky, shining bright. The almost silent camp was empty, except for a tent full of soldiers, drinking their problems away. Being a member of Mana Squadron was certainly a ton of hard work. The first week was the most brutal week of the program, you would be lucky if you even have an hour of sleep every night. They were essentially dropped from a plane into the wild together while they are tied up. If you don't get your parachute open by a certain moment, your dead. You are sent in the worst place in New Zealand, forest so thick and is basically a huge, tight maze. 90% of candidates will drop out from the program from injuries or death. They were the best of the best. Disciplined. And drunk out of their asses. "Fuck you mate" Private Tane slurred, drunk off his ass. The Maori native slicked his black hair back and took another swig of his beer and burped as loud as he could. Mana Squadron was on a night out, drinking and having fun in the fortress bar. The air was filled with smoke and a jazz band was playing in the background. The offending Lieutenant looked back at Tane with a glare. "Doing more than you bitch" the officer slurred, pointing his finger at Tane's chest. The 6 foot Maori pushed the finger off and slapped the officer in the head, knocking him face first into the table. He didn't recover. The Private looked at his best friend, Benny. "Mate, you think I'll get in trouble for that?" Benny looked at him with a blank look and said back "Nah mate, it's algoods. He was a dick anyways." Tane shrugged and took another swig of his beer. He looked at the pitiful amount of beer in his cup. He shoved a hand into his pocket and felt for any money. None. He looked at Benny and stopped to take a look at him. His pakeha friend was drooling on the counter, knocked the hell out. Letting a little yawn himself, he grabbed his Ak-47 and walked out of the bar, getting his cigarette case out as he did so. Tane let his rifle hang on his shoulder as he lit his cigar on fire. Doing a long drag, he lets it all out in a perfect fashion. He let the cigar rest on his lip and walked out the gate into the nearby forest. The moonlight beamed through the canopy, shining the ground around him. He engulfed himself in the sounds of the local wildlife. A bird chirping over there, a kiwi hiding in his burrow over at yonder, the local insects letting out there opera of sounds. The canopy was full of life and Tane smiled as he picked up a little flower on the groun- BOOM He spun, shouldering his rifle as headed down towards the base, where the explosion came from. A sense of dread filled him as he walked between the tree trunks and saw the ruined outpost. Fire spread throughout the outpost, the scream of the burning filled his ears. The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils making him puke on the dirt. Tane recovered and saw a man, his face half burnt, crawl out of a burning wreckage, moaning and groaning out. His eyeball was hanging on a thread, frying with that sickly noise. His nose was bent sideways, unnatural in pose. He let out a hoarse scream and coughed loudly, blood coming out of his busted lips. His arms burnt to a crisp, blackened husks, scratches and burns etched on the skin. His torso was covered in gashes and what seemed to be beer bottle sticking out of his gut. His left leg was gone, cut off by wreckage and his right...... It was a mess like the rest of the man. It was hanging by a little piece of bone, burnt and scratched. The ground beneath the man quickly filled with blood and guts, slowly oozing out of the man, seeping into the cracks in the ground. He let out another cry of pain and slowly stopped shivering, lying still on the cold hard ground. Tane let out another volley of puke, the scene to much for his eyes. He stood there, eyes watering for a minute. He steeled himself and moved forwards, obviously ignoring the man when he passed. Fear licked Tane's mind, wondering if Benny and the rest of his team shared his fate. He gripped his rifle tighter, turning his knuckles white. The fire around him did not help his growing worry, only fuelling it further. He heard gunfire up ahead and a cry of pain. Tane began sprinting towards the noise, vision blurring and bones aching. He came into the outpost's rugby field and saw the firefight up ahead. Dozens of men in red and black uniform surrounded Mana Squadron firing, surprisingly, very out of date BAR's at the SAS men. They still outnumbered Mana Squadron 3 to 1 and was picking them off one by one. The Maori steeled himself and pointed his Ak-47 at the nearest unknown and fired a three round burst at the head. He was satisfied with hearing a loud piercing sound and the man's head being a foot away from it's body. Half of the men in uniform stopped what they were doing and aimed at him, firing away with no care for accuracy. He saw the insignia. The old New Zealand flag. Tane snarled and dived into cover. "Fuck you ya slimy pieces of diehard fuck!" The remains of the old government was here at full force, wanting to wipe out Mana Squadron. The now boiling man grabbed his grenade and pulled the pin. He waited for three seconds before tossing it into the mass of red and black, killing three and injuring a dozen. He secured the red beret on his head before popping back up to fire at the governmental diehards, still shocked at their sustained injuries. He shot in three round bursts, taking down another nine men with shots to the head. He calmly reloaded his rifle and set out to kill more before ducking down into cover when the so called "shitheads" started firing back. Kamana calmly coached against the debris, waiting for the firing to stop. It stopped. Synchronised perfectly, the gunfire stopped. He peeped an eye out over the cover. What he saw disgusted him. The governmental diehards stopped to eat. Eating his now dead friends. Hunger was in their eyes as they pulled at the soldiers of Mana Squadron, getting their limbs off and munching on the flesh. Blood trickled from their mouths as the screaming started. Some of his men were still alive. They were eating his friends alive. Friends. Tane never thought about it, but he did consider them as friends. Friends of the highest degree he supposed. So when he laid his eyes on the site, he did what most people would do in the situation when armed. He aimed at the closest man, chewing the arm of First Lieutenant James Raven, recognising his buff arm anywhere. Tears formed in his eyes as he fired at the men. "No remorse" he shot the man between the eyes, surprise etched on his face. He walked towards the soldiers, still eating without a care in the world. "No mercy" Tane turned his rifle on full automatic, spewing lead into the soldiers. Some were ripped apart while others were silence with bullet holes in their back and through their hearts. They looked back now, hunger in their eyes and blood on their faces. "For the innocent" they charged at Tane, only to be cut down by rounds to the chest and head. "For Aotearoa" he looked at the remaining few, crying behind bodies or still eating their feasts. He finished them off. "To kill the greedy, burn unjustly and purge the corrupt. God defend this free land." He looked at the field of bodies. Tane fell on his trembling knees, adrenaline sapped from him. He let his tears flow. E to matou Matua i te rangi Kia tapu tou Ingoa Kia tae mai tou rangatira-tanga. Kia meatia tau e pai ai ki runga ki te whenua, kia rite ano ki to te rangi. Homai ki a matou aianei he taro ma matou mo tenei ra. Murua o matou hara Me matou hoki e muru nei i o te hunga e hara ana ki a matou. Aua hoki matou e kawea kia whaka-waia; Engari whaka-orangia matou, i te kino: Nou hoki te rangatira-tanga, te kaha, me te kororia, Ake, ake, ake. Amine. MAV Tamaki Makaura, Atlantic Ocean 21:33 I looked across the calm blue sea, almost sparkling in the light. Being aboard a battleship in Aotearoa's navy was an honour, especially because only seamen and honoured guests can truly come aboard a battleship. It's mighty guns swivelled and turned, ready to bare it's fang to any who dare. I walked towards the edge of the ship, water splashing against the Mighty Aotearoan Vessel's hull. I looked back at what my mother said, a certain spark appearing in my eyes. "You are boarding a Waka? What a warrior son I have!". My mother was a very traditional sort of folk. Believing in the tales of old and a fierce believer of God. A smile tugged at my face before setting back to it's usual cold demeanour. I didn't like being a politician, but it gave the most money. Especially with another baby on the way, I had to get money somehow. This diplomatic trip to England seemed to be the best idea at the time. I feel a bulge in my pocket and reached for it, letting out a tired sigh as I do so. I pull it out and saw what could only be called perfect. The picture was of a lithe lady, 24 with flowing brown hair and a smile that could win hearts over. Her light brown eyes complimented her face, bright and cheerful. She was posing for the camera, taking a comical, typical model pose. Her tank top and a bit too short shorts, not that he was complaining at all, was her attire and it proved how beautiful and carefree his wife is. It brought a smile to his face. He was going to be reunited with his family soon enough. "Diplomat Engelbart Kappa." I quickly shove the picture in my pocket, careful not to scrunch it up. I turn with my business mode on. Reminiscing could come later. "What is it Captain? I do hope we get this over with. Going to the British Isles.... discomforts me to say the least." It was true. I have heard the stories of the atrocities the diehards back home made. Cannibalism , torture, crucifying people. The list went on and on. And going to the country who they supported makes me a little queasy in the stomach. The Captain chuckled a bit. I don't understand this at all. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. He looks back at me and straightens up. "Don't worry sir, your in good care. The British have changed, ever since their collapse they have wanted to set up the commonwealth. This is where you come in. You need to convince them that we are independent now and we are going to be in the commonwealth together. We are not to be ruled over again. You remember what happened." I grimace and thought back to the war. It was around 30 years from now and it still scarred the country. Prime Minister Randen has been working tirelessly to get the country back in shape. It was still in the hearts of all. He clasps my shoulder, recognising my face in thought. "Don't worry mate. These British bastards will have a run for their money if they want to invade. Us army folk will make sure of that." He leans into my ear. "And I saw your missus over there. Wouldn't want a British man just to ravage her and fuck-" I cut the Captain off with a punch in the gut. That probably wasn't the smartest idea but the guy is being a dick. I mean what the fuck was up with that commentary. Absolutely no fitting of a captain of Aotearoa. But you know. It felt good. "Fuck!" The captain bent over more, holding his churning stomach. I slap him on the back of the head, earning a groan from him. Luckily, we didn't raise any commotion. "Listen here and listen well" I lean into the Captain's ear "if I catch you talk about my wife in any context, I will make sure that you will be deported to the South Pole outpost." The blood drained from his face. He scrambles up and salutes me. He turns and runs back into the ship. I smile. The South Pole outpost was actual hell. You only get deported there if you piss one of the higher-ups off or if you are a governmental diehard. Blood is spilt there and the current war between the outcasts and the diehards are one of the bloodiest. It wasn't even a base. It was just 40 square kilometres of fence, just to keep em in. You fend for yourself out there. A loud alarm blew, signalling that we have almost arrived at our destination. I set my beret in place and straighten my tie. It's about time. I walk up to the front of the ship and saw the British Isles in all its glory. I hear a horn sound and the march of men walking down. A haka. The true spiritual power of the kiwi. Our mana. "Whatiwhati to hope! Ringa pakia e! Waewae takahia! Ka huri o kanohi e! Kīkiki kākaka kau ana! Kei waniwania taku aro, Kei tarawahia kei te rua i te kerokero! He pounga rahui te uira ka rarapa; Ketekete kau ana, to peru kairiri: Mau au e koro e. Ka wehi au ka matakana. Ko wai te tangata kia rere ure Tirohanga nga rua rerarera, Nga rua kuri kakanui i raro? Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora! Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru Nana nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te ra! Upane, ka upane! Whiti te ra!"

Budapest, Hungary The sounds of footsteps began to echo across the hallway as an adviser to the President was walking very fast as she held onto a suitcase. The adviser stopped by the door to the President's bedroom and knock on it loudly, the sounds of the knocking traveled all the way to the bathroom. She had done her daily makeup by pressing the lipstick onto her lips softly and gently enough as she heard the knocking. She slammed her lips together and rubbed it to spread it all over her lips. The adviser was calling her name a couple before she opened the door. "Adviser?" the President said, with a tone of confusion as she didn't know why the adviser was here. “I thought that we would meet in the car?” said the President as she came out of her now, closing her door as she finished her sentence. “There has been a change of plan, madam.” said the adviser with the Hungarian accent. All of the sudden, two men in suits appeared near the stairs as one of them walked down stairs. One of them said, “Don't worry madam, it's just your guard.”. She knew that they were her guards, but she also knew that something had happened. The adviser and her walked down the stairs along with the guard quietly until the adviser began to speak up, “President, have you watched television or listen to the radio yet?”. The President gave her an odd look as she began answering the question, “Well, I got up and then went to the bathroom to shower. That's when I would put on the radio; but, I must of forgot. Anyways, I got my hair up and tied it into a knot. Then I started on my makeup, when you came.” The adviser sighed in disappointment as they got down stairs, where the other guard got off of the phone and walked up to them. “I just inform the other groups that we have her. Shall we get them to the location?” said the guard as he waited for the answer for the other guards, which he shook his head. The guard got on the phone right away as the other guard got them outside, where the car was waiting for them. The President and the adviser got in the car as the President asked her the question, “What is going?”. A moment of silence fell and then he said, “Serbia has joined the Iberian League.”. Thirty Minutes Later... The President, along with the guard and the adviser, walked into a different conference room with a round table and the map of the world across the table. She saw Olivér Erik along with Fábián Richárd, and Fülöp Gabriella, looking at her. She walked towards her seat and sat on it as she began to said, “Have you all heard the news?”. “Yes, our men at the border are ready for anything.” said Olivér, proudly as he thought that his men could hold off the threat. “But, we need more men and defenses in our country. No doubt that they will gain Spanish weapons, tanks, anything to make Serbia stronger.” said Fábián as he gave the President a notepad, which had a list of things that Hungary would need to defend its self. “This will cost a lot of money to produce these things and I am not such that the people are going to be happy.” said the President as she put down the notepad onto the table. Fábián sighed and then said, “Well, the people will just have to deal with it.”. Fülöp finally decided to speak up and said towards the group, “She's right about one thing, the people aren't going to be happy especially the fact that it has been also ten years since the war against Poland and Ukraine.”. Olivér shook his head as he said loudly, “People will always bitch, no matter what we do. If we open up schools, the wealthy would of bitch about taxes. If we close down some farm land and build homes, the farmers would of go on strike. And so on.” “I was just agreeing with the President, nothing to get mad about.” Fülöp laughed quietly as he shook his head in disbelief. “Back to the topic of defending our borders.” said the President as she walked towards the world map on the wall near the table. The men turned around to look at the President and the map. “Alright, I agree that we need to do all of these things. We will only station our men on the border, overlooking Serbia. Of course, they might do the same thing as us; but, we need to be ready. Olivér, get the requests of defenses on the border and cities across Hungary to Parliament. Fábián, make such that we get more men to the border.” said the President as she looked at Hungary and Serbia. “Alright, President.” said both men as they stool up and waited for the President to dismiss them. Fülöp shook his head and said, “I will do anything that you ask me to do; but, this will upset the public.”. The President walked to Fülöp and said to him in an ensuring matter, “I know that; but, we will handle them. For now, just try to get the supplies to the border and bases nearby it. Dismiss.”. Everyone stool up and started to leave as the adviser rushed towards the President with a piece of paper. The adviser had to catch his breath as he had ran a flight of stairs in order to give the paper to the President. He start to speak, "Pres-Presid-President, a not-e for you...". He gave her the paper as she began to read it, while she was reading it, she paused for a second. Two diplomats for Slovene-Croatia want to meet in Hungary. She questioned this for a second as well and then said, "Adviser, tell everyone to get the Red Salon ready for our guests.".

----------Palazzo del Quirinale, Rome.----------- "This is an outrage! Why? Why would they accept a nation that couldn't even maintain unity into the Iberian League! The Serbians are so corrupt I bet they can't even make a decision without someone outside of their own government pulling the strings!" Florenstano roared again for the sixth time today, his fist slamming down into his oak table. "Your Majesty, please you must calm down. Serbia's quick and rapid acceptance into the Iberian League has set us all on edge, but this isn't something to be so worked up over." Calmly spoke Everardo, in an attempt to douse the coals of his King's anger. "Allow me to go Spain, let me talk to the Spanish in an attempt to learn why Serbia joined and explain why this is not a good thing for us." Florenstano sighed, his hands coming up to his face and rubbing the many wrinkles that had formed over the course of his dual-rulership with the Prime Minster. He let his hands fall back down to the table, his back leaning into his chair as he began to respond. "Listen I-" He quickly stopped, being interrupted by the door to the room entering, his eyes squinting with the new light source pressing forth into the once dimly lit room. "Now now, don't you know it's bad to talk in a dimly lit room. Hurts the eyes." Said Isabella coolly as she entered the room. It was rare to see the Queen acting so calm, which means she was just as mad about the situation as Florenstano. Her simple attire greatly distinguished herself from the rest of the people in the Palace, wearing a simple dress and heels... which were very menacing as she stepped across the marble floor and sat into a chair next to her Husband. "Do not worry Prime Minster, we have already come up with a simple solution." She said, and Everardo could swear he heard what seemed to be venom dripping from her words. "We are going to let the world know, instead of back room talks with Spanish and Serbians. A public announcement that you and I will hold, Everardo." Everardo squirmed sightly in his seat. It was no shocker that we has scared of the Queen. She was tall, and the way she spoke just hinted at her knowledge of intrigue and manipulation. Everyone was scared of her, yet she was well loved by the people none the less. He had to think of his response carefully here, or she would simply spin his own words around into her favor like all the times before. "I do not see how this would cause any difference of an outcome, if anything this would make things worse between us and the Spanish." Isabella smiled. 'Damn it' was all he was able to think before she replied. "Do you have no spine, Prime Minster? Our nation isn't a weak play toy for the Spanish to use willy nilly in their efforts to 'eradicate communism.' We have regained our status as on the powers of Europe, we must use that influence to show the world that we are not a nation that bows every time Spain waves its hand. That is now Serbia's job, after all." "Are you proposing we leave the Iberian League? That is simply madness." Florenstano cut in, catching his wife by surprise. "No. I'm simply saying let us set our position in stone and protest this decision. The Serbs have no right or reason to be in the Iberian League." Everardo folded his hands together, looking between his King and the Queen. "Very well, we shall hold a gathering and announce Italy's position publicly. I do hope you know that any bad outcomes will fall directly onto the head's of the Monarchy, not the Senate."

London, England A fast, sharp tapping echoed throughout the room, as King William repeatedly hit a pen into his desk, eyes fixed on a single piece of paper. Beside him stood Prime Minister David Jones, a surprisingly young man for his position, one hand on the back of the Kings chair, the other on the desk, as he, too stood bent over the paper. A quick glance between the two conveyed everything they were thinking. Without a word, the king finally stopped his tapping, set the pen on top of the paper, and quickly rose from his seat, nearly slamming his elbow into Jones' jaw in the process. With a quick exhale, the king released all the nervous energy building up within him, and turned to Jones, who by this point had also taken his eyes off the paper, standing at attention. “Tomorrow.” Said the king, voice shaking slightly. “Tomorrow.” replied Jones. “Shall we let her majesty know?” “Yes. Yes, of course. The children, as well. They will all need to be present, looking their finest.” Nodding, Jones smiled. “Of course, my King. We've been planning and preparing for weeks. There's absolutely nothing that can go wrong at this point. The signing will be a historic event, and will only further speed up the goal of reuniting the Empire.” “Yes... Yes.” Muttered the King, eyes staring off into the distance. “And with everything kicking off in Africa, this will serve as a good distraction. The news of the restoration of the Commonwealth will greatly overshadow the invasion. The slower the news of the invasion spreads, the better.” “Of course, sir. Now, please, get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a big day, and you need plenty of time to calm your nerves.” The Following Day Fanfare filled the air, as celebratory parades roamed through the streets of London. Crowds gathered all over, trying to catch a glimpse of everything either in person, or on television screens throughout the city. As the bands continued to play their music, two black vehicles flying the British and Australian flags respectively were escorted to an indoor stadium, where the ceremony would soon take place. Within the first car sat Prime Minister David Jones, King William, and Australian Governor General Mark Chapman. All three leaders were sitting in absolute silence. For each and every one of them, the magnitude of what they were about to do began to weigh down on them, and each one was focusing solely on that. The only thing that broke their silence was the driver of the vehicle calling back to them, announcing their arrival at the stadium. As the doors were opened, and the sounds of the crowd outside reached the ears of the rulers, reality flooded back in. Almost like a switch had been turned on, each of them immediately stopped over thinking the situation, and stepped out of the vehicle, smiling and waving. As they were escorted inside of the stadium, Jones and William exchanged a quick glance, almost assuring each other of the situation. Once the leaders were inside the stadium, the second vehicle pulled up, and the rest of the royal family left to join the King inside. Minutes later, once everything had calmed down, Jones took his place atop a large stage, and got the ceremony started. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being here on this historic day! Looking out and seeing you all just fills me with happiness. Truly, it does.” Taking a small break, Jones collected himself, as he took on a more serious and official tone. “Years ago, the British Empire was the uncontested, strongest nation on the planet. It truly was the epitome of greatness. However, as nobody knew back then, that great empire would be thrown into a war, the likes of which it had never seen. The Great War, a war nobody truly won, proved to be the single thing the British Empire could not handle. By it's end, we were a nation in ruin. Unable to maintain control, we watched as the empire destroyed itself from within. Unable to act, we lost more and more of our people's faith. Then, in perhaps the most damaging thing to ever happen to our nation, we even began to destroy ourselves.” “The Great Anarchy threw Britain into a nearly unrecoverable state of political turmoil. Just barely avoiding becoming a civil war, we watched as different factions formed, each vying to control the nation, claiming they were the best choice. During this time, nobody was safe, not even the monarchy. Many members of the royal family died, both alongside of and at the hands of those they cared for. It was, perhaps, this brutality. This desecration of one of the most symbolic things our country has, that ended the Anarchy. Uniting under the only remaining member of the monarchy, the people of Britain fought against the factions that nearly destroyed the country. For the reasonable cost of returning more power to the monarch, we came together as one, and began to rebuild this nation.” “And now, as we are all here together, we will take the first step towards rebuilding the empire which was unjustly taken from us. We are joined today by Governor General Mark Chapman, as well as our King, William IV, to mark a momentous occasion. With their signatures, the British Empire takes it's first step towards it's former glory. Towards new glory. Under the Commonwealth of Nations, former members of the British Empire swear to unite under King William IV. While still independent, they are just as much a part of the British Empire as we here on the British Isles are. While it is just us and Australia for now, it is our hope that many others will recognize their Monarch, and accept their part as a member of the Commonwealth. Now, without further ado. Let us sign this historic document, and bind ourselves together.” Smiling, King William stepped up to a podium, taking a pen out, and signing his name on the document sitting below him. As he placed the pen back down, a massive amount of cheering filled the room, not stopping until the king sat back down. When Mark Chapman stood, all remaining cheering was exchanged for dead silent, as everybody looked at the leader of Australia. Smiling, and giving a quick wave, the Governor General signed his name on the document, raising the pen in the air as he finished, also joining the crowd in their cheering. Standing once again, King William walked over to Chapman, and extended his hand out to the Governor General. With a firm handshake, the two leaders sealed the deal, smiling out towards the crowd. As camera's snapped, and the crowds cheered on, Jones stepped up once more to the podium, and spoke. “As of today, the British Empire has taken it's first step towards it's future! Long live the Empire!” South Africa While the celebrations raged back home, the soldiers in South Africa had just began what would be a long and grueling war. Having solidified their position earlier that morning after taking Fish Hoek, and essentially the entire peninsula South of Cape Town, all that was left for the British Army was to begin their long march North, not stopping until all of South Africa was under their control. What had earlier that day been a hangar was now the British center for operations in South Africa. At the far end, a medical center was set up, where Neville Bishop was currently stitching up an injured soldiers stomach. Sweat dripped down from his forehead, between a dark pair of eyes, and down a long nose. He hadn't had a second of rest since they stepped foot on the beach the day before. As soon as the fighting stopped, he immediately returned to being a medic, and had been working on injured soldiers since. As he finished, he felt a heavy hand on his back, and turned to see who it belonged to. Looking down at his was a tall, curly haired man, grimacing at the wound Neville had just finished sewing up. “What the fuck happened to him?” asked the man in a very thick Scottish accent. “Oh. He got attacked by some civilian with a knife, right as we took the town.” replied Neville, sounding like he was about to pass out. “He gonna live?” Asked the Scot, to which Neville could only shrug. “We haven't received all of our medical supplies yet, so we couldn't do the best we could for him. Honestly, I think he'll be lucky if he does make it. But I still did the best I could.” Nodding, the Scot patted Neville on the back again. “So. He was your last one, right?” “That he was.” replied Neville, sounding relieved. “I finally get to eat, and then sleep.” “Okay, well. Before you do that, there was some bloke looking for you. I told him where you were, but I guess he's a wee bit squeamish.” Raising an eyebrow, Bishop looked at his friend. “Where was he?” “Eh... Just clean yourself up, and meet me outside your... corner.” Nodding, Neville cleaned his hands off in a small makeshift sing they had put together. He hadn't known Andrew, the Scotsman, long, but they had quickly become best friends during their time together back in Britain. Smiling to himself at the thought, he walked out and met up with Andrew, who then led him into the area that had been designated as a dining room for the soldiers. Looking around, Andrew found the person he was looking for, and led Neville over to him. Immediately, Neville recognized him as the large man he had spent almost he entirety of fighting along the coast with. Standing, the man smiled at Neville, and extended a hand. “Hey, I wanted to thank you. I don't think you ever realized it, but you saved my life on that beach. The name's Tom.” Confused, Neville returned the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Tom. I'm Neville. Now... How exactly did I save you?” “Well... For starters, if you didn't give me that laugh on the boat, I probably would have been frozen there, and probably died. Second off, you did in that African bloke who was about to shoot me when my gun jammed.” Blinking, astonished, Neville sat speechless. He hadn't even realized that he saved Tom. He just went down the beach, shooting anyone who was aiming a gun their way. Just as he was about to speak, he was cut off by Andrew, elbowing him in the side. “Looks like you're a fuckin hero, Neville! And here I remember you saying you thought you would piss yourself if you ever had to actually fight.” Andrews remark earned him an elbow in his own side, which he just laughed off. With the mood loosened, Neville remembered something, and turned to Tom. “I almost forgot. Andrew said you didn't want to go back to the medical area because you're squeamish? How does that work, with you being a big, tough soldier?” This comment caused a few friendly laughs to erupt from the mouths of the people Tom was sitting with, but he just ignored them, wanting to answer Neville's question. “Well... I'm not actually much of a soldier. I'm actually a mechanic. In all honesty, I can't stand the sight of blood. I think if it weren't for the adrenaline while we were fighting, I would have passed out right there in the sand.” Eyes widening a bit, Neville couldn't help but laugh a little. Instantly, he caught himself, holding out a hand to Tom. “Sorry, sorry! It's not really that funny. I just... It's just not something I would expect from somebody in the army is all.” “Yeah, I get that a lot. But I really didn't think I would see combat all that much, so I didn't see the harm in joining. Just learned the hard way how wrong I was, though.” Sighing, Tom shook his head, making fun of himself under his breath. “Well, if you lads haven't eaten yet, why don't you join us? We can share stories and stuff our faces before they send us back out there. How about it?” “Yeah, why not?” replied Andrew instantly, speaking for both of them, to which Neville just nodded in response. After the two got their food, they sat down across from their new acquaintance, and enjoyed the bit of relaxation they would get before they were once again sent out to fight.

Sevan, Armenia Sahle woke up slowly, his throat raw and his eyelids sticky with sleep. He realized very quickly where he was. This place was the men's bathroom in the Dead Man's Den, and he was in the last stall. His back was against the floor, and the feeling of the cold tile against his ass told him that his pants were pulled down around his thighs. His shirt - a colorfully patterned piece of clothing, like a tunic with its loose fit and U-neck that tied closed - was damp. He sniffed it. Smelled like piss. His legs were spread apart and straddled over the toilet as if he was preparing to give birth at it. He had some guesses as to what had happened, but he could not remember how he got here. As he stood up, his back betrayed him. A spasm of pain punished the middle of his spine and sent tendrils of numbness through his muscles. Thirty three was too old to be sleeping next to toilets. Gently, he pulled his pants back up. And then, he changed his mind. His pants went back down to his thighs. Sahle faced the toilet that had been his bed-mate, and Sahle pissed. When he was done and his pants were up for a second time, he began to run through his latest memories trying to remember why he had slept here. He remembered doing a show, and he remembered drinking some afterwards. As the night had wore on, he had taken Aaliyah back to her room and undressed her, except for her mask. And they fucked. That had been a difficult for him, but not because of his drinking. Her mask made him uncomfortable now. She insisted on wearing it most of the time to hide the scarred pit where her eye had been, but the creepy doll-like look it's glossy enamel face was too peculiar for him. And that eye... painted so lifelike, but unblinking. The struggle had been real, but he had got the job done. After that... He was here. He wasn't hungover... no, he hadn't drank nearly that much. But he was here, and wearing a shirt stained in his own piss. That was the next problem that needed solving. He pulled the piss-stained shirt over his head, baring the naked skin underneath. The shirt was disgusting now, soaked with not only his piss, but whatever had been on the bathroom floor where he had passed out. In the Dead-Man's Drink, that could be anything. He imagined it crawling with crabs, and gonorrhea, and whatever sickly old man diseases Sanos Horasian had. This shirt was dead to him now. He tossed it in the toilet and flushed. A weak stream of toilet water washed over it, dragging a sleeve into the outlet and clogging it. Water bubbled and splashed off of the intruding shirt and the bowl slowly filled. Sahle left the stall to its fate. The Men's room at the Dead Man's Drink was as unimpressive as the rest of the club. Its red-brown tiles were peeling off the wall, exposing the drywall underneath. Pipes caked with rust and limescale ran exposed along the bottom of the wall, connecting a chipped sink with the seatless, overstressed toilets hidden behind stalls that were little more than two-foot tall strips of decaying wood. A flickering light-bulb swung by a few wires on the ceiling, and its clicks and buzzes made the room look two times as bad. In one corner, there was the torn remnants of a poster. It showed a young girl, completely nude and making no attempt to hide it. She held a heavy gun of some type and grinned. The paper had faded so that she looked ghostly white against a vague beige background, and the bathroom went from damp to dry so often that the paper was now as much a part of the wall as any wall paper could be. Still, she was enticing, and Sahle felt his member stir at the sight of her. It was no time for that. Sahle cleaned his face, threw water under his arms, and left the room. When he entered the open halls of the Dead Man's Drink, he felt the cold hit his skin. He wasn't wearing anything above his waist, and Sevan was cold even in the summer. Above the walls, the hall opened up to the rest of the building, as there was no ceiling save for the roof itself. From here he could see the pair of pants that hung from a rafter above the main room, as it had when they first started working here months before. The floor warped and groaned with his every step, and he stepped softer as a result. When he came into the main room, he spied the old man Sanos Horasian. He sat at one of the dining tables below the stages counting wadded money out of a lockbox. When he saw Sahle, he eyed his suspiciously. "Where did this blacky lose his shirt, eh?" the old man spat. "This isn't one of those types of bars where the men pretend they are women. I don't want to see naked men walking around my property." "I have pants." Sahle said succinctly. He eyed the corpse in glass that watched from behind the bar and gave this place its name. The old man let out a meaty Hmph. "The Russian was looking for you." he barked. "Vasily?" Sahle asked. Vasily was the only Russian he knew. He was also the closest thing the old man had to a friend, so it was off putting that he called him The Russian. "Did he say where he would be?" Sahle asked. "No." the old man replied, turning back to his box of money. "I don't know what he does." Sahle left the building, trading the musty smells of stale beer and mildew for the crisp, thin air of the Armenian highlands. Sevan was a popular town, but it was a small one. The lakeside resort was kept surprisingly clean by crews of garbage men and street cleaners who were often veterans with a military approach to discipline, and the cold air kept any remnant filth from ripening. This meant that the booze, sex, and vomit of the nightlife was gone by sunrise. Sevan's scent in the morning was the carbon of cars and trucks belching up and down the road, and the wet, slimy smell of the nearby lake. It was, however, too chilly for Sahle's tastes. He had grown up in Ethiopia, where the mountains stayed comfortably warm and the deserts of the rift valley seared hotter than anywhere else on Earth. He had woke up without shoes, or a shirt, and he was wearing only a pair of baggy pants. His torso was bare, and his nipples stiffened in the wind. He sped up his gait, careful to not look too suspicious despite being a half-naked African coming out of a bar just in time for breakfast. The cold had the effect of waking him completely, though this way was just about as brutal as being kicked in the stomach. He began to remember images of the night before. Images of a familiar apartment complex, and a bottle of Vodka he had swiped from The Dead Man's Drink. He had be watching Vladmira's place again, hoping for... something. Maybe it was just to see Oziryan's mistress - or friend - or guest - or whatever she was. Maybe he hoped to see her undressing in her own window, or maybe he hoped that she might see him and invite him to undress with her. It was hard to tell. She was something that distracted him from all the shit that had been dealt to him. And, when it came down to it, she was ridiculously hot. "Friend!" he heard a familiar voice yell. It was Yared. He was thrust out the passenger side window of a dented old truck. His beard was as uncombed as ever, and he was wearing a thick shirt of plain wool. "Samel! Vasily is driving! He wants us for something." there was a pause. "Where did you put your shirt, friend?" "It was grungy, friend!" Sahle answered. Being reminded of it made him feel cold all over again. He sauntered over to the truck, holding his arms close to him for warmth. "Come in here." Yared climbed out the window, groaning something that sounded kind of like "Friend" as he bent his neck unnaturally to get out. Yared popped out and landed on his feet. Sahle saw Vasily's face shadowed inside, and he was eying Sahle over in a way that seemed unusually serious for him. "Marc is in the back, friend." Yared replied. "I will ride with him. Here..." he reached into the bed and pulled out a woven wool blanket. Sahle noticed the brown-red stain in its corner at once, and remembered the serious eyes that had caught his when he looked in the truck. He wondered how he had every made a friend like Vasily the Russian. Yared climbed into the truck bed. Sahle wrapped himself in the blanket and climbed in the cab. "I am thinking that it is too cold for the black man." Vasily greeted. His voice was more even now than it usually was. It lacked the sing-songy playfulness that he knew the Russian for. "Why are you running around town with shirt off?" "I lost it." That was all he had to say about that. He had no reason to reveal that he had managed to piss his own shirt in his sleep. He still had some dignity. Sahle pulled the blanket tighter around himself and tried not to think about the brown stain that he knew in the depth of his mind to be blood. "Where are we going?" he asked dumbly. "Oziryan is wanting a debt to be called in." Vasily responded. He kept his eyes on the road. Sevan City was lightly trafficked, but the few vehicles that did share the streets with them was navigated by the sorts of people who learned how to drive on family farms. It was deft attention, rather than strict rules, that governed the roads here. The thought of Oziryan collecting on their debt made Sahle nervous. He had helped to keep them safe from the Egyptians that Barnham had sent hunting for them, and he had gifted Aaliyah with her new face. But he was a crime lord, there was no doubt about that, and what he wanted could hardly be good. Sahle knew that he wouldn't be asking them for clean his car. "What are we going to do?" Sahle said, resigned. There was no other option but to accept it. He was nervous, but he had lived through so much already that he doubted they would be facing anything new. Such was the life of a fugitive. "I will be telling you soon." Oziryan said sharply. "But you will be meeting a man first." The ride grew quiet. Sahle struggled to think of anything but the inevitable trial they were preparing to face. He thought of Aaliyah, waking up alone and certainly looking for Sahle. And he thought of Vladmira, the fair haired Russian who had captured his imagination. He tried to imagine her naked, but he could only see Aaliyah's body, thinned by the horrors they had experienced over the last few months and so familiar to Sahle now that she seemed annoyingly plain. They passed a tanker truck parked in front of a fueling station. A hose sprouted from its side and dipped into an outlet in the tarmac, looking much like a fat worm crawling from the belly of its host to its home underground. The truck itself had once very clearly been of military use. It was a short, snubnosed Polish model with an olive drab paint-job and lines of thick black paint where its military markings had been. Sahle guessed that its driver had also been former military. He was young, but marked by an ugly burn scar on his forehead. He eyed them solemnly as they passed through what the tight gap in the road his truck left open. Sahle watched buildings go by, hoping more would sprout up between them and their destination so that he could enjoy this peace a little while longer. Sevan's architecture was simple. Some buildings were constructed from simple ruddy stone and showed hints of the Turkic, if not the Roman. Others were plastered and painted. As they passed one with an open alley way, Sahle saw where somebody had painted "Turkish is Devil" in native script. He remembered that the message had not been there last week. "People are still mad about the Turks." he said inanely. Vasily choked a short laugh. "I am thinking they will be hating the Turks until a long time is gone." he replied. "People do not forget some hates." Sahle knew of the terrible genocide the Turks had brought to this part of the world. He knew that the Armenians bore their grudge honestly, but there was something peculiar about turning it into graffiti. Vandalism like that seemed like something people did because they could not fight back with anything other than anonymous words. But Armenia had won, and the Turks had lost nearly everything. What was the worth of attacking them by painting on your neighbors wall? "You know, I am knowing more about this town than you would expect." he tapped his own temple with his pointed finger and gave Sahle a sly look. That seemed more like the Vasily he knew, a comic armed to the teeth. "There is a family in town of old Armenian blood that had worked for a Turk who owned a grocery store. It was before the revolution, I am thinking. He paid them in very little money and made them work most of the day so that their lives were sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep..." The Russian paused. He lowered his voice as if this was a story being told over a campfire. "Then one day, the Armenians revolted, and the war was on. They revolted too. They locked their Turkish boss in the basement of his house and took it over. And they never let him out. The war was done, and they did not let him out." Vasily stopped, and Sahle became confused. "You are saying they still have this man locked in his own basement?" he asked. Vasily shrugged. "I hear they keep him like he is a pet. They feed him the food they don't eat and say cruel things to him. I am not knowing the whole story. I am thinking it was being said that he worked their child to death when he was very sick, but I am not knowing this." "That has to be bullshit." Sahle replied. "Why would they go to the trouble? Wouldn't the police notice this?" Vasily shrugged again. "The Law in Sevan is Armenian now, and they are not liking the Turk. Real hate. That is a scary thing, I am thinking. It can build up and build up and build up and then, when it is released." He took his hands off the wheel and mimed a tiny explosion. "Pwoosh! All of the hell breaks loose." They arrive in the poorer part of town, far from the bars and clubs that formed Sevan's nucleus. Here, Sevan became rowhouses and low-ground tenements who's crumbling walls looked as old as the cyclopean ruins of castles and temples that dotted the treeless hills of the Armenian countryside. Life was meaner in this part of town, and Sahle began to imagine Oziryan's plans to be increasingly violent as they passed world-weary old women and rag-clad men with hungry eyes. The building they stopped in front of stood out from the rest despite the red-stone facade and unassuming architecture it had in common with them. A white plywood sign was hung between the first and second floors, and ran length-way across it, and on it were bright red Chinese characters below which were the words "Deng Wushu" were written in Armenian. Sahle stared at the building, trying to work out what part of Asia this was from, and what a "Deng Wushu" was. He decided that he did not know. The driver's side door opened with a scrapping pop as Vasily climbed out into the street. Sahle debated whether or not to keep the blanket he had wrapped around his torso, before deciding that he had best keep it. Wearing a blanket or wearing no shirt, both would look strange. At least with the blanket he would be warm. As he climbed out of the car, he saw Marc for the first time and realized that he too was wrapped in a blanket. "Marc" Sahle grinned and slapped the perpetual stoner on the back. "I did not see you back there, friend." A clear line of snot was running out of Marc's nose and mingling with the sparse hairs of his mustache. "All I did was get in the truck, brother." Marc rasped. When he talked, he sounded like he thought whatever they were doing was part of an inside joke only they understood. "I don't even know what is going on." Yared looked far less confused. "Oziryan." he said succinctly, and Sahle knew that he knew. Sahle nodded. Sahle saw a look of knowing concern wash over Yared, but it was short lived. Within a moment, Yared was his as carefree and irreverent as he ever was. Sahle wondered how much the sleepy bearded Krar player hid behind his impish eyes. "Let us go in, friends. I want to know what a Wushu do." The inside of Deng Wushu was as foreign looking as the sign outside. Most of the building was one room, open to the roof of the second story. The floors were a light, polished hard wood and the cream walls were decorated with a mixture of Asian paraphernalia and photographs of men posing in fighting stances. Three brightly painted statuettes stood on a shelf in the corner. The figures were bearded, two young and one old, and they seemed to be wearing some ancient style of robe. In front of them and on the same table was a small copper cup. It was filled with water. Sahle and his friends caught up with Vasily around a corner in the widest section of the open space. He was talking to a small, portly man of Asian decent. The lighting was dim her, coming from two-few lights, and the corners of the room were obscured in a soft darkness. "Samel. Yared. Marc." Vasily called out, "Meet Deng Wu. He will be accompanying us." Deng bowed, and Sahle saw where his greasy hair was thinning on top. "I am honored to make your acquaintance." Sahle smiled. Marc responded with his own wobbly bow, grinning like a dipshit as if the whole thing was one big joke. It was only then that Sahle noticed the music. It was coming in from a compact record player sitting in the shadows at the back of the room. The singing was folksy and crooning, but there was something unique about the accompanying guitar that made it sound almost western, if not American. American music had gained some attention in Africa after the refugee airlift his father had ordered when wars swallowed the North American continent a decade ago. These styles had influenced music in Africa, but to hear the same styles influencing Asia... "Deng. Good to meet you. But I got a question." Sahle heard Yared exclaim abruptly. "What is a Wushu then?" "Wushu is an ancient Chinese art." Deng explained stiffly. "It is the balance of mind and control of body." "It is kicking for fighting." Vasily added. "Deng teaches the Armenians so when they fight with no weapons they do not look so stupid." Deng gave Vasily an annoyed glance, but he said nothing. "We have a mission to be doing." Vasily began. Sahle felt his throat tingle nervously as he waited to here. Vasily turned to face Deng. "Oziryan is wanting to move his shipment." Deng's expression did not change. He nodded. "Follow me then. We will need all of us to move it." He lead them to a backroom, where boxes and cabinets sat next to stranger things, including a life-sized mannequin and a statue of a fat Buddha who's arm had been chipped off. The room was filled with a thick, musty air, and dust irritated Sahle's nose as their presences kicked it into the air. There was a large crate sitting on a pallet in the corner of the room. Sahle noticed that it was the first thing Deng and Vasily seemed to see. Somewhere, Deng had found a crowbar. He wrenched open the top of the large crate. "It is still here, as it was." he explained. "I have not opened it until now." Vasily waved his hand. "Oziryan trusts you, I am thinking." he said. "Let us show our friends this thing. Samel, Yared, Marc." They stepped up and looked over. There was two divider walls cutting down the center so that they left a small gap, where a long thin bag held something blocky. "Do not be touching that." Vasily pointed and warned. "That is dry ice. It will be burning your skin." Both sides of the crate were lined with foil. Deng pulled back the foil lining on top to reveal the secret that had brought them to this Chinese man's door so early in the morning. They were long, thin sheets of blotting paper, perforated so that they could be broken into small finger-nail sized bits. On each bit was the same image - a smiling man with black skin. He has bushy hair and a near-cropped beard. In one hand he held a cane, and with the other he pointed outward. It was an image that Sahle knew well. This man's was the face of Acid. "Doctor Feelgood." Marc gasped lustily. "If this is a gift, friends, I will take it." "No." Vasily answered sharply. Deng returned the foil and closed the lid. "We are to be delivering this to the Georgian border tonight. You will be assisting us." "Assisting?" Sahle asked. "How?" "You will be muscle. The people we will be dealing with will rob us if we are too few." Marc snickered. "They will be robbing us, friend, if they see who you got for muscle." Sahle agreed. He had shot at men before, and he could hardly remember doing so. It had been a long time ago, and the events of that day had been unique. This was different, though. He had handled weapons since, but he feared them. Guns felt too unnatural in his hands. And Vasily knew all of this. "This is not a question." Vasily answered. "You are going. Oziryan has ordered this, and you owe him I am thinking. Now come, help us lift this."

Washington D.C. Jim Sledge sat on a park bench in Dupont Circle. He hadn’t been in D.C. since the inauguration. Being here back in the capital seemed to rejuvenate him. Out in the wild running two-bit congressmen was a far cry from here in D.C. This was the seat of the country’s political power. Sure the states could pride themselves on their semi-independence, but D.C. was the hub with power spinning outwards like the spokes on a wheel. A hotdog cart rolled by loaded with sizzling dogs. A summer breeze sent the appetizing scent of the food wafting through the park and made Jim’s stomach rumble. Among the dogs, buns, and fixings was a radio that played the hourly news update. “… violence was finally ended and the protest dispersed. At least two Negro protestors are in critical condition after the demonstration turned violent. Mississippi State Police superintendent Jefferson Davis Hood said the two men were resisting arrest, forcing his men to take action. ‘I’m all for peaceful protest,’ Hood said to CBN news. ‘But it has to remain peaceful. These… people were not being peaceful and we had to act. In other news, President Norman today signed into law the New England Weapons Nationalization Act. The bill, which had been stalled in the Senate just last week, nationalizes New England Weapons Industries. After signing the bill, President Norman went on to say—“ “Mr. Sledge.” Jim looked away from the cooking hotdogs to a thin, bald man with thick, black-rimmed glasses in white, short shirtsleeves and a black tie. He looked vaguely familiar, but Jim couldn’t place him right off. “John Mitchell. I’m Vice President Reed’s chief of staff.” That was it, from the campaign. John was part of Reed’s staff during the campaign. He’d been with the VP a long time dating back to when Vice President Reed was Congressman Reed. Jim stood and shook hands with John while he spoke. “That's right, I remember you. How you doing, John?” “I’ll be better if you’ll follow me.” “Say no more.” John led him across the circle to a black sedan with heavily tinted windows idling by the curb. A Secret Service agent stood beside the car and opened the rear door for Jim, who climbed inside and came face to face with Russell Reed, sitting calmly in the seat and reading a newspaper on his lap. “Mister Sledge,” he said in that Georgia twang of his. “Mister Vice President,” said Jim. They shook hands while John got into the passenger seat and the Secret Service agent climbed behind the wheel. “Hope you don’t mind if we talk on the run, Jim, I’ve got a luncheon at the Hay-Adams just down the road. I figured I would swing by and pick you up. We can talk in-depth later tonight. How are things in Chicago?” “Easy,” Jim said with a sigh. “Too easy. Bill Barnwell is too complacent to be a good opponent, and Dickson is too hands off with the campaign. He doesn't care, but he’ll win the primary in double digits easily. His district is heavily Republican so he'll cruise to victory in November.” Smiling, Jim turned to the VP as Reed chuckled. “How’s it living life one heartbeat away from the presidency?” “Oh, you know,” Reed said with a modest shrug. “I go to the office every day and twiddle my thumbs until it’s time to go home. I advise the president when he asks for it, and I help with the legislative agenda but that’s it.” “Mmmhmm… and those rumors I’ve been hearing about you being the power behind the throne are just bullshit?” “You may very well think that,” Reed said with a smirk. “But I couldn’t possibly comment.” “Right. So, did you just wanted to catch up? Is that why you paid for me to fly out here to meet with you? I know how much you hate small talk, Russ. What's up?” “I have a very important job for you.” Reed fussed with his necktie, not meeting Jim’s gaze. “Wilbur Helms and Doug Collins. What do they have in common? Just off the top of your head.” Jim ticked off points with his finger. “Both are senators, both are as old as fucking dirt, both are two of the longest-serving senators… other than that, I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. Different parties, different states, different guys.” “Collins is a Republican," said Reed, "He’s from Montana, sure, but he's as thick as thieves with the Southern Caucus. The old bastards flock together like buzzard. He has a few western senators he caucuses with and was a pretty valuable ally across the aisle when I was Majority Leader. The big thing they have in common? Reelection in ’82.” “A Montana Republican and a South Carolina Democrat,” Jim scoffed. “You need goddamn dynamite to get them out of office.” “I was thinking of using another tool," Reed said coyly. "A Sledgehammer, perhaps.” Jim raised his eyebrows at the Vice President’s grin. “I want you to run two separate election campaigns for me, Jim. We need to find two Democrats, one in South Carolina and one in Montana. You’ll work and liaise with both campaigns and run them from D.C., money will not be an object. I have donors who love giving me cash and I’ll have John set up PACs for both races.” Jim furrowed his brow and tried to wrap his head around it. “How can you have donors in another state adequately fund two Senate races in states they have no stake in? Just trying to wrap my head around it.” “You’d be surprised how much people are willing to give you money for campaigning when they think you’re the power behind the throne. My PACs are stuffed to the gills, Jim. Share and share alike, I say.” Jim nodded slowly and let the angles play out in his mind. It didn’t make too much sense for Reed to want to do this unwieldy plan. He and Helms were close back when he was Majority Leader, and he was just talking up Doug Collins’ usefulness. They were two of the most valuable cogs in the legislative machinery of the Senate. True, Helms was a pain in the ass, but Collins was always a straight shooter. As far as committees... “Judiciary,” Jim finally said. “That’s it, isn’t it? They’re both the ranking members of the committee, Helms was chair and now Collins is the chairman with the new Republican majority. You want to reshape that committee. Why?” “That’s above your pay grade, I’m afraid.” Reed looked out the window and checked his watch. The Hay-Adams Hotel was dead ahead. “We can get down to the nitty-gritty tonight, talk logistics and payment and initial strategy. I got you a room here at the hotel for two days. We’ve still got two years, but I want to start on this as soon as possible. We hit the ground running and do no let up until election day. You don’t have to give me a yes or a no right now, but at least let me know if you’re intrigued.” “You kidding?” Jim said with a laugh. “I said I wanted a challenge, and I sure as hell got one.” “Ask and ye shall receive,” Reed said with a wink. The car pulled up to the hotel, Reed’s bodyguard climbing out to open the door for him. “Room service is on me, Jim. I’ll see you tonight.” Jim nodded and stayed sitting as Reed climbed out the car and ambled into the hotel lobby to press the flesh. The smiling, folksy person the people in the lobby saw and shook hands with was a far different creature that had just occupied this car. “’84 or ’88?” Jim asked Reed’s chief of staff. “What’s that, Mr. Sledge?” John asked from the front seat. “Is Reed actually going to wait until ’88 to run, or is he crazy enough to actually challenge the president in ’84?

Serbian-Albanian Internal Border The clunking and clattering of a old APC echoed around the grassy fields of the border, the APC itself was old and withered, being surplus equipment from WW1. A tall Serbian soldier peeked out the top hole of the APC, looking down the mounted machine gun as the APC continued it’s patrol. The sun rapidly sunk lower in the sky as the light faded, being replaced by the looming moon and the twinkling stars. “Anything to report Branko?” shouted the Commander of the APC, sitting the back and watching over the soldiers hunched in the seats of the APC. “No sir!” shouted back Branko, who was manning the gun of the APC. He slid back into the take for a moment, grabbing a pair of binoculars that was laying on one of the benches, scanning across the flat grasslands and looking for any signs of trouble. He stopped his scanning for a moment as in the glass of his binoculars he saw a few people moving along the border. “Hang On! We got movement, North-East.” said Branko, ducking back into the APC to look at the commander. The border-line that divided the province of Albania from the rest of Serbia was locked down, due in part to the Mafiya’s heavy influence over the area. It was a constant struggle between military forces and Mafiya smugglers as they battled it out in towns and fields in the area. The driver of the APC slammed his foot into the accelerator, the APC now moving rapidly to the location where the men had been spotted. The men they saw appeared to be a company of six, each had a rifle slung over their backs. As soon as they saw the APC charging towards them they began shouting phrases in Russian. They appeared to be protecting a pure white van, although the APC crew did not know what was contained within the van itself. “There definitely Mafiya! Everyone out of the APC, gun the bastards down!” shouted the Commander. The APC screeched across the field, sending dirt and rocks into the air as the men hopped out the back and began firing at the Mafiya across the field. The van had parked and the Mafiya were using it to cover themselves. The once peaceful field was now full of strife, as the crackling of gunfire echoed through the night, as the sun had finally fallen in the sky. Crimson red blood ran through the fields, as the Mafiya fell to the Serb Gunfire. They were disorganized as they continued to shout out indistinguishable phrases in Russia. Branko had dismounted the APC Gun, as using it risked tearing apart whatever the Mafiya had in the van. However as he rushed to take out the last soldier, he garnered a lucky hit in Branko’s stomach region. Branko screamed out in pain as he fell to the ground, as the commander fired a bullet at the Mafiya who had shot Branko’s head, bringing about his demise. “Branko! Are you alright!?” worried the Commander, rushing to Branko’s side. A medic that had been in the APC was also quick to rush over to Branko. “Do not freak out, the bullet did not hit anything critical, all though a few more centimeters over as Branko would have been a goner.” assured the medic, applying pressure to Branko’s wound as he applied a gauze pad and some other medical substances to treat the wound. Branko said nothing, his face disgruntled and showing clearly that he was in pain. The rest of the squad stood around Branko, checking on him and assuring him that everything was going to be alright. “Everyone else besides our medic here and Private Branko, clean up the bodies and check the van! Now!” commanded the Commander, the rest of the Serbian Soldiers rushing around as they piled up the bodies and opened up the van.

Urumqi, Xianjing The questions had gone well. Or so Auyi felt. He had spent his time reaffirming his position on the regional autonomy question. Softly praising the hundreds of groups across China. He felt he had spoken confidently, and that gave him confidence. From there, the question and answers had become a blur of the vanilla types. Sabit asked him what he thought of the condition of Urumqi, and if he felt Beijing could do anything more. Auyi agreed, saying that China deserved equal chances for equal growth. Not only in the east, where the villages and the factory towns fed into the ports and became fat. The rest could develop as well in much the same way. The avenues would just need to be exploited. He couldn't say the same for Jie, who had taken his mother away to explore while the press's backs were turned. But he had caught it from the corner of his eyes. When he looked back at Sabit too he knew that he was aware. But was relieved when he showed no signs of caring. He understood, he had that light in his eyes. The same sort of look Bathukhan gave him when he had complained of Jie when he was an infant. When the press was done, the casual pleasantries returned. Sabit's wife came to the house, no doubt knowingly dodging the press gang. The introductions were prompt and polite. Bows and compliments exchanges. Sabit's wife was much like himself, an old portly woman kissed by the sun. Her face shining with a raw energy. Auyi had to wonder if the two fed off each others liveliness. Her wide wrinkled cheeks flushed with the passion of cheery blossoms when she smiled and stole Bao Yu in conversation, pawing casually at her plain white hijab. When it had all died, the hosts and company's interests turned to feet. Shortly after Sabit's wife, Patime's return a young man had arrived at the door, delivering to the door a rack of meat. Sabit dealt with him personally, paying for the goat he had. Shortly after a team of youths with ice haggled with the old Uyghur, and he won him a block of ice for his wooden ice-box with a several ren. With the haggling over and the afternoon drawing late, Sabit stole off Auyi. Dragging him off to speak to the council of Uyghur elders. Where again he affirmed his position to them and partook in discussion. The meeting became a vicious blur of old men, and hushed murmurs in their Turkic tongue. As the light outside darkened, the two were shuttled back home for a dinner. “What a curious meat.” Bao Yu complimented as they sat down to the private dinner. The harsh sun of western China had lowered below the mountains. Its reach painting the sky in brilliant fiery oranges and blossoming rosy pinks. The deserts to the west came alive in airbrushed colors that shone through the windows. And Urumqi itself had fallen dark in its awe. “It's camel.” Patime said with a smile, “My husband seems to think it's a rather tough meat, but I think he forgot what he's missing. He decided he likes goat now.” she added with a coy smile, looking over to her husband who hung over his food with a guilty smile. Patime had laid out a modest spread for their guests. A tray of a hard-crust bread sat in the center of the table alongside simple ceramic bowls of dipping sauces. Alongside the bread a large pot of pilaf sat, from whence any of the guests could greedily scoop out with a tin ladle. The pilaf carried a rich smell of the freshly butchered rack of goat, seasoned in spices. Hints of garlic wafted up from the rice bed within. “It's a taste I brought back from the east.” he replied, mocking regret as he droned. “It was difficult to find camel out there. But I discovered goat from the markets on Beijing's south-west side. It was probably the only meat there that's hallel.” “You take that seriously then?” Auyi asked innocently, taking a sip of dark minty tea. “Of course.” Sabit laughed, “It's part of Uyghur identity in many ways. I wouldn't give it up. And in a politics as large as Chinese it helps to stand out. Helps with an identity.” he added, smiling. “Like you and your white suit.” Auyi chuckled politely, looking down at the white Zhongshan he wore. It was signature in a way. Though in the dust of Urumqi it had stained to an off-white. “We can get it out.” Bao Yu comforted, sweeping at the sleeves with her fingers. “Not at the table, we don't want to get the food dusty.” Auyi remarked embarrassed. The table laughed at the minister's flustered embarrassment. “It wouldn't be new to me.” Bathukhan remarked, a wave of nostalgia on his lips, “Eating dusty food.” “That's right, you're Mongolian. But you urbanized, so it doesn't matter.” Sabit toyed, “But what's your roll in Auyi's mission anyways?” he asked over a bite of food. “Merely due friendship.” he replied nonchalantly, “And with the elections there hasn't been much in Congress. Xiaogang Wen is going to hardly miss my vote. And neither with my constituents. The last major battle I was needed for ended, all that's left is the oversight committee to pull together and approve incoming applications. Once those groups pull together. “Have they started here yet?” the Mongolian congressman pried. “Auyi met the start of it today.” Sabit pointed, “It's here, and it's coming up. We just need to rally the leaders to make the framework, and then we get to sit down with Beijing. Based on my understanding not everyone is set to meet with the Committee either, or petition them. “You and I both know the affairs of government don't happen instantly. By the end of the summer though is when I imagine it'll officially begin.” “Gyatso's started though.” “Well I don't think Beijing will permit a theocracy. So though the promise is filled the Tibetan leaders still need to quarrel over it. “Which may actually be harder if certain competition gets in.” Sabit segwayed, looking up at Auyi. “Certainly.” he committed, mid bite. “Has anyone heard some of what he's said? Or reputed to have said? Xhu terrifies me, more than I'd care for his lack of inspiration for out this far. Reminds me of the Manchurian witch-hunts. Do you remember those?” “For all my effort: no, I don't really remember much. I wasn't as aware then.” Bathukhan smiled. “I think that counts for me too.” Auyi shrugged. “Well, I suppose that goes for the way things are.” Sabit sighed. “Straying from the topic though, what do you think of Russia, Auyi?” the Uyghur chief asked. “Russia I think is not our fight.” he responded plainly, “Though to a certain degree it is our commitment, but it isn't really in Chinese interest. It's in Siberian or Russian interest. Our diplomatic commitment to our allies is admiral and it's fine to see a nation who for once cares for the other people of the world, but there needs to be a point we can draw down in Russia and let the Siberians take control. “I'm not saying cut them off as soon as I take office, but make a serious exit plan with Nikolov. Present them the means to reunite the Russian state themselves and engage in discussion with Radek on merging the two parties to make a single Russian state for good. “And for the balance in the Comintern I don't think two or multiple Russias is healthy for the balance of representation. Where all parties gets what the Russians effectively get three votes per representative. So there needs to be an effort to make them one state again.” “On the Comintern, you really going to leave that post? I imagine it'd make you considerably powerful a man.” “No.” Auyi sighed, “I don't want to waste the time. Besides I want good image. I imagine we all do in the end. So I'm stepping down. The member blocs should already be trying to front a candidate they'll put into a running to replace me. So we get a new guy then, and a new purpose for the International, at least in image. “I'll probably stick around as a representative from China though if it matters.” he added dismissively. “Fair enough I imagine.” Sabit replied, “But you do talk about trying to increase China's presence in the world. I wonder because it seems stepping up in Russia would be counter-intuitive.” “It won't because it provides the wrong sort of image.” Auyi contested, “Bathukhan brought this concern to me before when I was writing my platform.” “I read papers.” the Mongol said simply, never looking up from his plate as he slowly picked through it. “So if not, what then?” “Mang Xhu seems to think that China can increase its presence and reinstate growth through a war and annexation economy.” mused Auyi, “On the pretense of growth and once again promoting wage growth he can eek it out by initiating Conflicts of Revolution on a potentially grander scale than our missions to Mongolia and Indochina. Not just sliding a few arms and adivsors to choice groups, but physical man power and greater material aid. Start actual wars really, and not conduct subversive missions; which have been more-or-less successful. “I don't like the risk associated with this.” Auyi continued, “It'll put us in a bad light with our only allies when we demand their land for the greater revolution, and further alienate potential partners. I believe in a more comprehensive revolution. “As much faith as I have in the worker's paradise I doubt we'll achieve it so long as there are parties who will fight it. So we need to downplay the fears of these parties and win their support. Hou in had that right, although his aim was political unity and not international favor. But China has incredibly potential to project itself upon the world stage and really play large roles in the international community from the level of the people on up. “In a harsh idea, it's getting nations to become reliant on us. But we make the rules still. To prevent another Qing Disaster we need to organize to open the Chinese market, and invite foreign trade to our ports. That way our people can produce on a wider scale and achieve Mang Xhu's goals without having to fire a shot.” “I don't imagine that can sit well.” Sabit commented with a low voice, “What happened last time when this same thing happened? How are you going to tackle the memory?” “But doing so on our own terms, and not sitting here until some foreigners force it. “We'll still adhere to the Revolution. It's a given. But its useless if there no point. China's reached about as high as it can go on its own and among its partners in the Comintern. But we can build past the ceiling.” “Sounds like you got a platform!” Sabit commented, clapping and laughing, “Why don't you get him to debate Xhu?” he asked eagerly, leaning in to Shanxi Wu. The small whippish man leaned back in shock, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I'd support the endeavor.” Bathukhan nodded. “I wouldn't rush it though.” Wu replied cynically, “Do any of us know if Auyi is up to it? No offense to you comrade, but I'm not sure how you'll hold up or if you can articulate your points over someone else.” “Then why not a lesser opponent?” Patime offered, “Has to be someone. Just for practice really. Like how the men will race their horses against weaker ones just to warm them up.” Shanxi Wu nodded, his eyes lighting up, “This I can organize.” he said, “I'll need a day to think about names, but we got the time here. I can head back to base tomorrow morning. By the time I get there I'll get the aids on the phones finding dates. “Three or four maybe might work, we'll see how Auyi does after those. Then maybe we can get with Xhu's campaign to get one in.” “I'm eager.” Auyi lied, forcing a smile as his heart skipped a beat. Last time the two had talked, it ended with Xhu storming out on a dinner much like this. “With all of that though,” Sabit leaned back, “in your possible China. What sort of role do you think an old Uyghur might have?” Auyi looked up at him. Knowing that wanting look in his eyes. It wasn't obvious to the lay people of the table. Bao Yu didn't seem to get the hint at where he was going. And Wu only connected it when he saw the subtle looks he and Bathukhan returned. This was the part where the traded things. “Depends. There's a lot of potential.” “Open doors?” Sabit smiled. “Sure, everything will be changed out. Sooner or later.” “Most certainly.” Perm, Russia “Dmitri, do you have your papers?” a voice said distantly, muffled and suffocated in a cold haze. Mad thumping drummed in the air like the beat of a maddened heart. “Did they really shut the water off again?” another shouted. High pitched and feminine. She shouted angered and distressed. Her piercing voice cutting through the fog. He couldn't tell if she was near or far. The sounds and the rhythm of where he was sharpened. It came back into focus as he became steadily more aware. Could feel the hard press of edges in his back. A misplaced sensation of discomfort in his neck, like someone was holding his head at an angle, but held it there for far too long. It did not hurt, but it did throb. Much like the rest of him. There was an emptiness in his stomach. He gnawed and rolled uncomfortably below his chest. It did not threaten to burst, but it did threaten to chew itself up from the inside. His fingers twitched and he felt the hard knock against the wooden table on which he lay. His throat felt dry and rattling as he breathed out. A sharp choking cough passed his lips and suddenly everything went silent. A switch flipped off and everything went dead. In that room the cliché would have ran true: a pin drop could have been heard. “Komrade, he's awake!” someone shouted in the room, and Jun's eyes rolled open. And for once, something stung. A sharp dryness stung his eyes with needles, and with the light he recoiled and hissed in agony as he blinded himself. Rolling on the table he recoiled back, expecting tears to come but none falling. Hands dove down on him and forced him down, “Don't let him move! He'll break something!” someone yelled as he groaned in abrupt agony. “Komrade!” the same voice said, closer. More distinct. A powerful young voice. It rang with the power of iron bells. “He's awake!” he repeated, “Damn, where is he?” he hissed spitefully. “My eyes.” Jun spat between clenched teeth. “He's talking. That's a good sign.” another voice said. In Russian. “Water here.” someone stuttered, “Open his eyes.” he demanded. Jun protested as nearly a dozen hands grabbed hold of him, pulling his arms back and forcing open his eyes. In the haze mist that clouded his vision he could barely make out the bottle over him before a torrent splashed down over his face. He cried out in shock, throwing his captors off and shooting up, frantically rubbing his face with his palm. “Where'd you get the water?” the girl asked. “I kept it hidden just for this.” the other said, and Jun realized it too was a woman. He sputtered insults under his breath, rubbing the water from his eyes. His head felt full of heavy foam. His sides were twisted and stiff. Sitting up, he felt as if he couldn't move again. He slouched down over his knees moaning bitterly to himself as shadows gathered around him, talking hushed in whispered Russian. Too quite for the agent to hear over the panicked beating of his own heart. A patient tensity resumed. The Discord he had awoken too replaced by an excited silence. A fear, or an awe. He couldn't tell. His head was still swimming. But he managed to look up. The room he was in, some sort of library. Gathered around him was a group of men and women. All young. The youngest ones looking nothing later than their late teens, and the oldest ones in their mid-twenties at best. They all looked at him, wearing a sense of caution and wonder. Their pale faces basking in the sickly yellow-green light of the fixture over head. Behind them in the door stood on of his kind. He leaned on the frame of the wide entrance, arms crossed. His expression was not that of wonder or fear. He measured him up more so than the others took him in. He knew him. But Jun couldn't place it. “Komrades, I think you all have things to do.” the Asian man in the back beckoned. His tone carried heavy, though his Russian was mired in the ghosts of Chinese tones. Expectantly and obediently they began to file out of the room, quiet in their exit. With the last one out the doors closed. They thudded heavily against each other. “I'd like it if you lay back down.” the Chinese man requested in Mandarin, as he walked towards him, “It'll make me more comfortable that you won't rip something open again.” “What do you mean?” Jun asked, rubbing his temples as he gave the man a confused look. He was thinly built, though his face looked as if he could have been a larger man. His cheeks had shallowed and his skin hang loose on his bones. He did not look old, but he hadn't aged well here. “When we found you, you had a severe puncture wound, several broken bones, and at least one broken rib. Your head injuries suggest you took a hit to the head, and the amount of blood on you suggests you lost a lot of blood, you might be sick and weak for a few more days yet. “Adding to that, but you're burned across twenty to thirty percent of your lower body and you were on that table unconscious for several days. As much as we tried, I imagine you're malnourished and dehydrated. So lay down comrade.” Jun nodded, lowering himself back down across the hard surface. The tension in his sides and back made it difficult, and he groaned as he lowered himself. “To be terribly honest, this isn't the first time I saw you in a bad way.” the man said, looking at him. He looked conflicted. The way he half smiled as he looked at Jun showing a relief that hadn't graced his worn appearance and graying black hair. At the same time, his eyes did not look to celebrate, but only bore an adept caution. “I was in Tibet when I saw you first and last.” he continued as he pulled a chair over from alongside a stack of ages-old books, “Like you, I was there to provide intelligence and even to disperse anti-Chinese groups after the initial invasion. I was there for about five years. “What impressed me about you though was how you came in, limping, held up by a regular soldier. Your pants had been frayed up to your knee. What had been your pants leg shredded and turned into an impromptu bandage. But that didn't stop the bone that ran out through your skin. “And the stink. Shit, the smell on you. You – that leg of yours – was on its last leg; excuse the pun, comrade.” he sighed, sitting down, “But all the same as you walked by me in the field hospital lobby in that old palace in Lhasa you still tried to walk on that leg, as if you felt no pain. It was merely a minor inconvenience. “How does a man do that?” he asked. “He crawls.” Jun answered, staring up at the wooden ceiling and at the cob webs that filled the corners, “And if he can not go where he crawls, he walks. “That's how I shot my bone out through the side. I was a day by any other means outside Lhasa. But I had to keep going.” “But how did you break your leg?” the other agent asked, perplexed. “I fell.” he said simply. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about anything else. It was like talking to another Ulanhu. Some things – many things – just didn't need to go said. Not that they were dangerous, or they were important, but because much of it was bullshit. “I should have guessed.” the other agent nodded, “Did you have a partner? I see you're still solo. No rifleman to carry you by the shoulder.” “First got shot.” Jun answered stiffly, “Other's in the mountains.” “Tragic.” Jun new conversation partner mourned, “I lost mine last year. Some crazy fuck ran him over with a truck. Took his body. I only got the head in a box, popped like a grape.” Jun took a deep agitated sigh. He wanted to get up and walk out. Get on the road again. But he still didn't know where he was, who this man is, or where his gear went. “How's Beijing?” he asked. “Excuse me?” “Beijing, comrade.” he repeated, “I haven't been there in three years. I'm missing home. “I know you couldn't have come from anywhere else first, the Dragons like to call people into the Nest when they send some small teams out. I haven't been in Beijing for three fucking years.” “It was fine when I left.” Jun said, “There was snow.” “Fine, I suppose.” the other agent shrugged, “Do you perchance know how deep we go here?” he said, uncomfortably. He sounded like he was going to betray a secret, but some part demanded he do it. He looked at Jun square in the eyes. Demanding and knowing. He sought something to would say 'no'. That he knew already. “No, I don't.” he replied. The other agent groaned in distress, throwing his hands to his face as he rubbed his temples. “Fucking great.” he cursed bitterly, “I hope we were not forgotten out here.” he complained. “Listen,” he continued, “You and I are not the only Tigers here in Russia. As I hope you know some of the oldest operatives here went silent in Russia on order after the first invasion took a nose dive and shit went to hell. After, Beijing sent more of us into Russia to scout the nation out, and to try and establish some foot hold. Or something, I don't know. I know all of us were told to do different things, that much is certain. My partner and I were told to try and get some pro-Chinese support up and...” he trailed off nervously. Pointing to the door, “That's all either of us managed to assemble. There are people interested, but not enough to form an army like we were asked to form. “So here I sit, and here my partner in crime would have sat playing glorified babysitter to some kids trying to go through school, and angered they can't get jobs. Some life.” he laughed. But it was conflicted, sorrowful as much as it was humored. Jun didn't catch the humor in it, and bore him down with a stout unamused look. He could see the pained failure to find it funny, and his expression darkened. “There were about two-hundred of us.” he replied. “But since then, over fifty six of us have died or went missing.” he began again with a solemn mournful tone. “So there's hundred-fourty-four of us left in the state, or the failed state. The causality rate over the past year got so bad that we actually sought each other out to found a network to support ourselves. Underground, like the Mafiya everyone wants to deal with; but can't help but be absorbed into. We learned all of our operation names, the general area of our operations. On the hope it'd be vague enough to keep each other safe, but exact enough we can seek each other out if we need something. “It's a slow one, but it's the only one. Sing personally ordered we fall radio silent so we can't be found out. We've been stationed here ever sense.” “So who are you?” asked Jun. “Me? Stripped Tiger. I was number two until my partner was killed.” “I see.” Jun nodded. “When can I go?” he asked. “You?” Stripped Tiger laughed, “Probably not for a while.” he snickered, “You're in a bad shape. We were only just able to get some basic supplies from the royal college to keep you alive. You're fortunate we have a trained doctor, if incapable of finding work if you can believe it. “You'll need to ask with him. But he left early today. He's got grand neighborhood rounds to do. He tried to pay the bills. “But when he's back he'll give you his thoughts.” Omsk, Russia And again he was cut off. Standing along the edge of an abandoned street Tsung was left behind to find his way back to where he was. Or needed to be. The body guard provided to him by the German getting him out as far as he needed. When they had gotten to this street he had turned and left. But in all readiness, Tsung didn't know where else to go. So he had stood there, idly staring off into the darkened windows of a storefront across the street. He couldn't read the Russian, so wouldn't know what it was. Any other features that would have helped had long gone missing. The street from end to end looked to have suffered through looting. In the after math of evacuations someone had swept through and carried off anything they could carry. Tsung looked down at the marching succession of windows at the rampant and merciless desolation. It wasn't much in the way of war damage. It was far too targeted at the windows. The only suggestions there had been battle were dried pools of blood in the asphalt. But he figured they could have been started by mobs as well as soldiers. He kicked at the loose stones, none the wiser on where had to go. He wasn't even sure if he was escorted out the direction he came, if he had he probably would have ended up in the airport again. Fifteen minutes. That's as long as the German insisted he stayed. About around that time the Russian patrons turned and left as well, all the less sober than they were when he arrived. Tsung didn't feel comfortable with the idea of seating with them. There was an underlying hostility even he could smell among the booze and liquor. He choose to sit in a corner and to not drink. Watching the riotous laughter of the Republicans as shells exploded above. When they left they all went one way, so he went the other. The columns of thick black smoke didn't help anything either. Rising from the city and country-side all around him rose thick inky columns. They rose high before diffusing, clouding the air in an even veil as they caught the wind. Even the hints of airplanes were masked in the heavy burning. And the air was thick with the sharp bitter smells of the high explosive shells. It made his chest sink. A heavy heart beat deep, wondering if the rest of his crew had made it. But the ferocity of the shelling made it unlikely. At least in his mind. Even thinking out it made his ears ring. He looked back down to the road when he heard a familiar clatter and rumble of engines. Turning to his left he saw wheeling down the road a drab armored car. Its thick wheels grinding over the loose bricks and shards of glass. The ground crackled and popped under the heavy rubber tires as it drew close to Tsung. Instinctively, and almost out of fear the tanker rose his hands over his head, and cowered back as the green turtle pulled up alongside him. In the dim light of the afternoon he could see the faint shadows of the drivers in the narrow tinted windows. A hatch on the top popped and was thrown open by a burly figure. His green coat weighing heavy on his shoulders as he turned to Tsung. A thick beard hid his mouth, but he scowled down at him. “Who the fuck are you?” he scowled in clear Mandarrin. “Private Li Tsung. First Liaoniang Cavalry, comrade.” he replied quivering, “I was cut off from my unit.” The man on the car looked down at him confused, “How th- how the fuck does a tanker get cut off from his tank?” he demanded. “I- I was caught with my pants down.” Tsung frowned. “Right...” the officer replied, “Well whatever the case, you're one of ours. We're going to figure this out. Jump in the fucking back and we'll sort this through. “Alright, open up the back hatch. Derrew bol, comrades!” he shouted as he lowered himself in. As his hatch close, the back of the carrier opened, letting in Tsung. He scurried around the corner to the door. Hesitating he gave pause when his gaze fell to the body laying on the floor. Laying in a pool of blood a young man his age looked up at him, hand holding a fistful of blood-soaked rags to the side of his face. He looked up at with a grimace of expectant pain. He was already go pale. “Come one, we don't got any time!” the lieutenant cried back at him. His voice exploded with a fiery impatience. He leaned around from the front passenger seat of the armored personnel carrier, his face a bitter scowl, “Fucking Han kids for fucks sake. Come on!” Tsung felt numb looking at the injured soldier. But imagined the Uyghur officer's rage was more violent than the injured lump. He stepped in, his breathing freezing. He felt his boots slip across the bloodied metal floor. As soon as he was in the door was shut behind him and the muffled rumble of the engine taxied him down the road. “Cigarette?” someone asked. Tsung jumped as something drummed against his chest and he looked up from the crumpled figuring rolling on the floor, grunting at each bump. His face was pale and he could feel it. “N-n-no. I don't s-smoke.” he said weakly. His stomach felt ill. But the man shrugged it off. “1st Liaoniang?” the lieutenant said from up front. He was turned back in the front seat again, holding onto the spartan metal console between him and the driver. “Y-yes sir.” Tsung said meekly. “What's the name of your CO then?” he asked. “Sun Song, comrade.” “Song? I heard an officer of that name was to be at the airstrip today. I was supposed to reinforce him. “Russians really pounded the shit out of it though. But how'd you end up a kilometer and a half away if your pants were 'just down'?” he pried. “I-I wouldn't know even if I c-could tell you.” stuttered Tsung, glancing back down at the body. “Hey, up here shit head. Don't worry about that unlucky son of a bitch at your feet. You got his spot anyways. He just took a load of shrapnel to the face; he's still alive so he'll be fine. “So speak clearly, you don't know how you got to where you are?” he demanded. “N-no sir.” Tsung responded, prying his startled gaze from the injured soldier. “Alright then.” the officer sighed, “You're certainly green enough to not know, even if you were one of my fucking men. We'll let comrade Sun deal you out then. “Fucking pussy.” he swore, grabbing for the car's radio console. “Just let me call in for you.” he grumbled. “R-right. Thank you.” Tsung nodded to the sharp-spirited giggling of the other men present. “Lujuun zhoongwei Hala Khan of the 3rd platoon, 8th Heilongjiang Mechanized infantry calling in on a request for a status update on one Sun Song, 1st Liaoniang armored cavalry.” the lieutenant said into the radio receiver, “We picked up a boy serving under him. I'd like to return him. Over.” There was an audible pause from the console. “Got that. Stand by for information.” the speakers chirped. “I'll be here.”